Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon
by Phoenix-cry
Summary: When Watson finds Sherlock in a modern day opium den things are not what they seem. However, Sherlock's motives leave John questioning his odd friend's famous brilliance and they quickly become mixed up in London's underworld of money, drugs, and murder.
1. Chapter 1

Author note: Hello all! I've decided to take a break from White Collar (don't worry I plan to go back) and try my hand at a 'Sherlock'.

Story Note: I write all my stories chapter to chapter so I never know how long the bloody things are going to be, so be warned it may turn into a novel. I don't do slash, but I'm all about good bromance. I try not to get too graphic, but angst is always lurking in my stories somewhere.

I tried to write this in the original style of first person from Watson's point of view...but it just didn't feel right so I switched back to second person, but it will be 99% from John's point of view just to keep things simple. So if you're lost and so is John, don't worry about it, Sherlock will clear things up for you both in the end.

Since the show is inspired by the stories this one has been inspired by The Man with the Twisted Lip, however you don't need to read the original to understand this.

Enjoy!

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Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter One, Bored

_Thunk!_

_ Thunk!_

_Thunk!_

John opened his eyes and furrowed his brow as he realized that the odd sound was not part of a dream, but actually a part of his reality. Glancing over at the clock he groaned at the early hour. Rain continued to lash against the window as it had done for the past four days. The weather seemed to be having an effect on the crime rate and they hadn't had a case in days.

_Thunk!_

_ Thunk!_

Not having something to keep Sherlock's mind occupied was always dangerous. However also having him cooped up indoors due to the storm was even worse. John knew that Sherlock snuck outside to smoke, even though he denied it to the last and always had some clever explanation for his short trips. Despite all his efforts with the nicotine patches it seemed to be a habit that he simply couldn't break. With the constant driving rain it was impossible for even Sherlock to come up with a good excuse to go outside.

_ Thunk!_

_ Thunk!_

John was worried that if something didn't change soon Sherlock was going to start eating the nicotine patches rather than being satisfied with just wearing them. He was also going to start physically tearing the place apart with his misplaced energy and boredom. Closing his eyes and pulling the covers over his head John tried to ignore the out of place sound and go back to sleep.

_Thunk!_

_ Thunk!_

_ Thunk!_

It was no use, John had to know what Sherlock was up to. Throwing the sheets off John got out of bed and pulled on a terry cloth robe. Getting to the bottom of the stairs that lead down to the living area John was startled fully awake when a small colorful object whipped past the edge of his vision and stuck into the door frame inches from him with a resounding 'thunk'. Looking over John was shocked to see several dozen game darts sticking into the wall. Sherlock was in the love seat across the room with a handful of the darts still in his hand.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

Without answering Sherlock threw another dart dangerously close to John.

"Stop that!" John demanded.

"There's a fly."

"A fly?"

"Yes, a fly."

"So?" John asked, not seeing the connection.

"I'm trying to kill it."

"...with throwing darts?"

"Obviously."

"Sherlock," John sighed heavily "you need a hobby."

"I have one, two in fact." Sherlock huffed as he slung another dart and managed to finally pin the buzzing fly to the wall. "Okay, now I'm back to just the one."

"Go to sleep."

"Bah!" Sherlock exclaimed as he jumped to his feet with sudden energy and began to pace. "I'm too bored to sleep. I need a case! What is wrong with the criminal element in this city? A touch of rain and people just stop murdering each other? It doesn't make any sense!"

"I'm not going to do this with you now, not at four o'clock in the morning. I'm going back to bed."

"Fine!" Sherlock snarled. "Go to bed, close your eyes, and just pretend that there is nothing wrong. Simple as that, just...sleep, perchance to dream."

"Exactly. Please try not to put any more holes in the wall between now and morning."

"It's already morning."

"Proper morning." John corrected. "Breakfast time."

Sherlock made a noise of ultimate disgust and snatched the previous day's paper off the end table. He had already read the paper a dozen times in search of a puzzle worthy of his intellect. Quickly realizing that the paper still didn't have anything new to offer he violently tore it into shreds before resuming his pacing. John watched with a worried clinical eye as Sherlock's mental energy drove his body into constant frustrated motion.

"Have you ever considered medication?" John asked seriously.

"Medication? As in drugs? What for?"

"Nothing. Never mind. Good night."

"There is nothing good about it."

Knowing there was nothing he could do to calm his friend John went back upstairs. Sherlock watched him leave with an irritated expression before turning his attention to the tattered remains of the paper at his feet. Dropping suddenly to his hands and knees Sherlock rummaged through the pieces and laid them out in a new order. Sitting back he inspected his work.

"Still nothing..." Sherlock sighed miserably. "Fine. If trouble isn't going to find me, I'll just have to go find it."


	2. Chapter 2

Author Note: I will get to some actual 'plot' and crime at some point. I meant to do it here...but then I got distracted with John/Sherlock banter. Trying a new fandom is like trying out a new car, you just want to have fun with it at first before you worry about it taking you places.

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter two, Time Files

It was nearly eleven at night when John made it back to Baker street. The previously relentless rain had finally given in a few hours ago. Stepping into the entrance way John hung up his coat. He looked down and saw Sherlock's still damp clothes discarded in a heap, showing that he had broken down before the rain had stopped and stepped out. John just hopped that his absent minded flat mate had gone to the trouble of getting dressed again after coming in from the storm.

Exhausted from the events of the day John tried to just make his way across the living room and upstairs into his own bedroom before Sherlock noticed. John assumed that Sherlock still didn't have a case since he hadn't texted him all day. Right now a case-less Sherlock was the last thing John wanted to deal with.

Sherlock had managed to dress himself and was sitting cross legged on the couch with John's computer on his lap. Staring intently at the glowing screen Sherlock looked completely unaware of his surroundings. John whisper a short thanks to God and headed across the living room.

"Well?" Sherlock asked expectantly without looking up.

John stopped in his tracks and shook his head sadly. If he just kept going there was a good chance that Sherlock would just follow him upstairs and insist on conversing. It was best to just get it over with.

"Well what?" John asked with little enthusiasm.

"What do you think of my idea? Go on, I value your opinion."

"No you don't." John corrected. "Besides, I don't know what your idea is. I only just got home."

"Ah."

"'Ah'." John repeated in irritation. "Why can't you take the time to glance around and make sure that I'm even in the room before you try talking to me?"

"You were here when I started talking, I can't help it if you lost your focus."

"I've been gone all day and half the night. You didn't notice you were alone in all that time?"

John already knew the answer to his frustrated question, but he was in a bad mood and Sherlock failing to notice he was gone irritated him more than usual. The tone in John's voice caused Sherlock to bring his eyes up off the computer screen. John shifted his weight uncomfortably as Sherlock ran his trained eyes over him briefly.

"Did you end things or did she?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Sara." Sherlock clarified. "You were at the Surgery all day, saw six maybe seven patients. One of them had something particularly contagious, your fingernails are much cleaner than usual meaning you gave your hands a good scrub. Although you really should do that after all your patients, but we both know you don't, possibly because you were used to much filthier conditions with a limited water supply in Afghanistan. Afterward you took Sara out to dinner, I'm guessing to the near by organic because they are one of the few places that guarantees no peanut products seeing as Sara is deathly allergic. Going back to her place you had a roll in the sheets and shortly after had a fight that lead you to come back home."

"I thought I asked you not to do your 'observations' on me anymore."

"Can't help it. Try looking at a clock and not discovering what time it is." Sherlock replied honestly. "Perhaps it was the lackluster sex that lead her to decide against seeing you again."

"Lackluster?" John repeated indigently. "What would you know of..."

"Well if you had given it your all you would have fallen asleep afterwards, now wouldn't you? Then you wouldn't have been awake to have the fight that caused her to kick you out, and I would have remained sitting here talking to myself." Sherlock continued. "It's for the best anyway. You've been having thoughts of ending your association with both Sara and the Surgery for quite some time now."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you are a..."

"Genius."

"A git!"

"Oh come on, John, you and I both knew from the moment it started that your relationship with Sara was doomed to failure."

"Why because she almost got killed because of you?" John snarled.

"No." Sherlock shrugged. "Because she has a cat."

"Sorry...what?" John asked having been caught off guard by the statement.

"A cat. It never would have worked between you. I assumed you already knew and that you were just having a bit of fun."

"I still don't understand what her cat has to do with anything."

"You're a dog person, Sara is a cat person." Sherlock explained simply. "Cats and dogs don't mix."

"I don't have a dog." John pointed out.

"It has nothing to do with actually owning a pet. It is your most fundamental personality traits that cause you to choose between cats and dogs. I didn't make the rules, John, that's just the way the world works. There are only two kinds of people in the world: dog people and cat people."

"What are you then?"

"Cat person." Sherlock replied without hesitation. "Cats are graceful, intelligent, independent creatures that don't take orders."

"So then by your own 'deductive' reasoning things between you and I won't work out either."

"We're not in a relationship."

"Of course we are, friendship is by definition a relationship."

"That's different. You and I are different."

"Why"

"Because you are dependent on me."

John took a breath to protest, but before he could Sherlock gasped sharply.

"What is it? What's wrong?" John asked.

"Good Lord, what time is it?" Sherlock said as he looked as his bare wrist with a furrowed brow.

"Sherlock," John sighed "you don't wear a watch."

"Why not?"

"You always say time is irrelevant."

"Well it has become most relevant."

Sherlock got to his feet and stepped forward in a way that John knew if he didn't move that his friend would just knock into him. As John stepped out of the way Sherlock reached out and unlatched John's watch with the practiced ease of a life long pick pocket. John didn't even realized he'd been mugged until he saw Sherlock securing the watch on his wrist.

"Sherlo..."

"I have to go."

"Go where?"

"No Where."

"No where?"

"Yes...and I'm late."


	3. Chapter 3

Note for American Readers: The term to 'lose a stone' refers to a person losing about 14 pounds of weight off their body.

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Three, On Holiday

It had been a week since John's messy break up with Sara, a very long week. He had given the Surgery two week's notice, but they had managed to find a replacement for him today. So unless Sherlock managed to find some actual paying clients it was going to be time to start looking for another job.

Actually it hadn't been a lack of clients that was keeping Sherlock unemployed at the moment. It was the lack of any client that had been able to catch his attention for more than a few seconds. John had already witnessed Sherlock dismiss half a dozen people before they'd even taken a breath to tell him what their problem was. In fact the last time the door buzzer had gone off Sherlock had practically ordered John not to answer it. These were just the people that John had seen while at home, he had no idea how many potential clients came by during the day while he was at the Surgery.

The part that was starting to disturb John the most was Sherlock's sudden apathy towards not having a good working case. He hadn't exactly slipped into a depression, but he certainly wasn't bouncing off the walls and tearing things apart the way he usually did when he got bored. When John came home in the evening Sherlock was often still in his pajamas or still sleeping on the couch wrapped in a sheet. A few nights ago John heard Sherlock leaving at around midnight, but he'd fallen asleep before learning if he'd just gone out for a smoke or if he'd been gone longer.

John was half way up the stairs to their shared flat when the door at the top flew open. A gaunt older man with balding hair burst out and nearly fell down the stairs in his hurry to leave. Dressed in only his pajama bottoms Sherlock had chased him to the door with his cheek flushed in rage.

"Get out!" Sherlock roared.

Clearly terrified the frail looking man flew past John and out onto Baker street. Sherlock stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, his nostrils were flared as his chest heaved in adrenaline fueled panting. John stared up at him, more in horror of the treatment of the old man than in shock to see Sherlock so riled. As soon as Sherlock spotted John his entire manner shifted, his lean frame relaxed and he smiled. The near homicidal fury was instantly lost from his eyes like someone had flicked a switch.

"Hello, John."

With that warm greeting Sherlock disappeared back into the room. Unsure if he wanted to go upstairs or just leave and try to apologize to Sara one last time John stood frozen to the stairs. Sighing in defeat John continued up the stairs, if a week's worth of apologies hadn't helped one more go at it certainly wasn't going to change her mind. Inside the chaos of their front room Sherlock was calmly leafing through some papers, as he finished with them he just let them drop to the floor.

"What was all that about?" John asked gesturing towards the door that Sherlock had just chased the old man out of.

"I don't have time for the trivial issues of every man, woman, and child in this city." Sherlock commented as he continued to disorganize the papers further. "I am working on far more important matters."

John looked over at the couch where there was a box of cereal spilled out on the floor in front of it. The pattern of missing cereal pieces on the floor, Sherlock's wild uncombed hair, and his rumpled pajama bottoms gave John the impression that Sherlock had spent at least part of the day, if not all of it, laying on the couch watching tellie and eating directly from the floor.

"Trash tellie and dry cereal is more important than any of the cases brought to you today?"

"You're starting to pick up on some of my methods." Sherlock said proudly. "And I haven't been brought any cases, only petty problems."

"I see. So where have you been going at night?"

"No Where."

"Fine, be that way."

"What way?"

John rolled his eyes. He suddenly noticed that Sherlock hadn't even bother with opening today's paper. It was still rolled up on the kitchen table where he'd left it. Sherlock always tore through the paper looking for something of interest that the police had missed. The story didn't even always have to be about a crime for Sherlock to find the hidden criminal activity behind it.

Sherlock's behaviour had always been strange, but he still stuck to a certain routine and pattern. Completely oblivious to John suspicions Sherlock continued to rummage through the heaps of paper. Sherlock hadn't lost enough weight to have it show in his face yet, but with his shirt missing the definition of his ribs was starting to show though his sides.

"Sherlock, you look like you've lost a stone." John said with concern.

"You're right again." Sherlock paused in his search and turned his full attention to John. "Huh...is it possible that you can be taught after all? It never occurred to me that anyone could start thinking like me just by observing me in action."

"What's going on with you?"

"I don't know yet." Sherlock smiled brightly. "Isn't that fabulous?"

"Um...I guess that depends."

"On what?" Sherlock asked looking genuinely confused.

"On if you're healthy or not."

"John, I'm as fit as a butcher's dog." Sherlock said confidently.

"I disagree."

Sherlock didn't seem to care that John disagreed. He made a noise of triumph when he found the page he'd been searching for. Without another word he disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door. John didn't bother disturbing him. Instead he went into the kitchen in hopes of finding something to eat.

After discovering that the cereal spread on the floor was the only thing that came even close to being eatable John decided to order in Chinese. Half an hour later when the food arrived John brought a box of vegetable Lo Mein over to Sherlock's closed bedroom door. Before he could knock the door opened just enough for Sherlock to snake his arm out and steal the take-out from John. Prize in hand Sherlock closed the door again.

"You're welcome." John said to the closed door.

"Thank you." Came a muffled response.

"Huh...is it possible you can be taught after all?"

Going back to his own meal John sat down with his lap top. He opened his blog and realized that he still didn't have anything to write about. The forum was full of concerned comments from readers wondering why there weren't any new updates. John opened up a new entry.

"'On holiday.'."

John felt sheepish about the two word blog, but he wanted to at least let his readers know that he wasn't dead. After an uneventful evening John went to look at his watch to see what time it was only to be reminded that Sherlock still had his watch. According to his laptop it was getting close to midnight. Getting up John went upstairs to his bedroom. He turned the lights off, but he didn't go to bed.

Waiting by the door John listened intently. It only took about ten minutes before he heard Sherlock coming out of his own room and then quickly leaving out the front door. John waited just a moment further before following after him. He wasn't sure if he was good enough to tail Sherlock without being caught, but he was certainly going to try.

"Time to find out where 'no where' is."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Four, Den of Iniquity

"Where are you going, Sherlock?" John muttered to himself.

John felt that so far he had managed to avoid being spotted by his friend, but as they traveled deeper into a seedier section of the city the population was starting to become spares making it more difficult to hide. Rather than grab a cab Sherlock had been making his way across the city on foot. As their path began to twist through a serious of dark and mostly deserted alleyways John reached into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his gun.

Although looking woefully out of place in the London slum Sherlock did not move or act like he was in any danger. He behaved as though he might as well be taking a stroll through Hyde Park on a sunny afternoon. Walking with purpose down the street he eventually came to a rusting metal door. John stayed behind a set of bins a few hundred yards away and watched as Sherlock reached up and rapped his knuckles on the door three times.

A small slot viewer slid open in the heavy door and Sherlock said something to whoever was inside. Although he strained to hear John couldn't make out what Sherlock had said. Whatever it was it magically opened the door. Without hesitation Sherlock stepped inside and the door shut behind him with a metallic clang.

Lestrad's partner had warned John once that if Sherlock got bored enough he would become a criminal just for a new challenge. John tried to shake that thought from his mind, but clearly nothing innocent or even particularly legal could be going on behind the rusted metal door.

Taking a deep breath John left his hiding spot and walked up to the door. There was a crudely drawn spray painting of a blue oriental dragon above the door, next to it were a few Chinese characters that John couldn't read. Reaching up John knocked on the door three times. Once again the slotted window opened up. It was dark inside the door and John couldn't make out if anyone was looking down at him or not.

"Where do you think you're going?" A gruff voice demanded.

"Um...'no where'?" John replied hopefully.

The slot slammed shut and John figured he'd gotten the password wrong. However moments later he heard the bolt being thrown and the door opened. The interior was an inky black that made John hesitate to just step inside the way Sherlock had. The doorman did not have time to wait around and began to close the door. Realizing that he was about to miss his chance John hurried forward.

The air seemed to close in around John as the door closed behind him. With his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness he turned and looked at the door man. Almost as large as the door itself the man glared at him with his hand held out as if he was expecting something. John reached to his back pocket to get his bill fold.

"I don't want your money." The man growled.

"Um...okay..."

"No weapons allowed, you can pick it up on the way out...if your able."

John briefly considered denying he was armed, but the man was looking directly at his coat pocket. Pulling the weapon out John begrudgingly handed it over. The man turned to the wall and opened a large cabinet that was set into the wall. Inside was a large number of various sized drawers. He pulled a smaller one open, took a small brass token out, and placed the hand gun inside. He handed John the token and seemed to lose interest in him.

Unsure of what to do next John took a brief look around. The front room was small and the only features other than the exit and the gun closet was a set of stairs through an archway. Having come this far John turned and walked up the stairs. On the first landing a beautiful slender Asian woman in a traditional dress stood waiting for him by a closed door. When John approached she bowed her head slightly and smiled at him.

"May I help you?" She asked politely.

"I...uh...I'm just looking for someone."

"We have many people here, not all of them wish to be found."

"I won't cause a fuss."

"I was not trying to stop you. I was only providing a warning."

The woman opened the door and stepped aside. John flashed her an uneasy smile and went through the door. The air in the dimly lit hallway was acrid and stung at John's eyes. The stringent scent of vinegar hung heavily in the hazy air. The hallway was set on either side with doorways that were closed by wooden beaded curtains. Stepping up to the first door John carefully pushed a few strings of the beads to the side to peek inside.

The source of the acrid smoke became instantly apparent as John looked in on a emaciated young woman heating a small square of foil with what he assumed was heroin on it while she inhaled the toxic smoke through another piece of foil wrapped around a cigarette. John's blood ran cold at the realization that Sherlock had lead him into a drug den. He remembered Lestrad tearing their place apart once looking for drugs that Sherlock did not deny existed. However John had never expected that the problem was this deep.

The tiny rooms offered little more than a place to poison yourself in privacy. Each one had small bed against the side wall up on a wooden frame and a sink on the other side. Hurrying to check in on the rooms behind the curtains John stopped cold when he found one with a man who appeared to be dead. There was a needle still embedded in his arm as he lay slumped on the filthy wooden floor.

John resisted the impulse to step inside and check the man for signs of life. If he wasn't dead already he was certainly already beyond help. John eventually came to the room that he was searching for. He pushed his way pasted the noisy beaded curtain as he stepped into the small room. The vinegar smell didn't seem as strong in the room as opposed to the hallway, but there was still a thick haze of smoke that clung to everything.

Sherlock was lounging on the bed, which he'd spread a black silk sheet over, looking more comfortable than anyone had a right to be. His royal blue shirt was half unbuttoned showing off a 'V' of ivory chest that was slowly rising and falling with his relaxed breathing. With his eyes closed a smile twitched the corner of Sherlock's lips as he muttered senseless to no one. John could still barely believe what he was seeing as his eyes wandered to the spent needle laying on the floor next to a burnt silver spoon.

"Sherlock," John sighed "what have you done?"

Sherlock lazily opened one eye at John, the one with the brown speckle in it that seemed so out of place in its sea of blue. Rather than being alarmed at being caught he simply closed his eyes again before he waved him away lazily. John waited a moment, but it was clear that Sherlock had assumed that he'd taken the silent order and gone away.

"Sherlock..."

"Come, John, have a jab." Sherlock purred at me. "It's wonderful stuff."

"A jab?" John repeated in utter shock.

"Don't worry, I haven't got any diseases."

"Dis...diseases?" John sputtered.

"Are you just going to repeat what I say or do you have something useful to yammer about?"

"Sherlock, have you absolutely lost your mind?"

"Keep your voice down." Sherlock complained as he winced in pain.

"No, no I will not!"

"Then go away." Sherlock muttered drunkenly.

Sherlock rolled away to turn his back on John and settled down on his side to go back into his drugged haze. When John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder his friend sighed in obvious frustration. Moving quicker than John expected him to Sherlock rolled back over and sat up. Sherlock lashed out and caught John's wrist and yanked him down to his knees. John cried out in surprise as Sherlock tangled his hand in his hair and yanked him closer.

"John, you're going to spoil everything!" Sherlock hissed in John's ear.

"Let me go!" John demanded angrily. "What is wrong with yo..."

John was interrupted by a blinding flash of pain as Sherlock knocked him nearly unconscious with an unexpected powerful knock to the forehead. John had seen Sherlock take men down with the precise head butt before, but this was the first time he'd experienced it first hand. Feeling disoriented and nauseous John was unable to fight being hauled onto the bed and forced to lay still.

"Sherloc..." John slurred.

"Quiet."

Before John could protest further the beaded curtain split open once more. The Asian woman that had greeted John at the door stood in the doorway. John tried to sit up, but Sherlock put his hand on his chest and easily kept him down. The woman looked at the two men suspiciously.

"Is everything alright?" She asked.

"Just fine." Sherlock smiled brightly. "Don't pay attention to my friend, he's such a mess."

"Can I get anything for either of you?"

"I'm set for the night, but he could use something for pain."

"I have tincture." The woman offered.

"That would be splendid."

"Shall I open a tab for him?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "Just put it on my bill."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

NOTE: I hope the pace of this story isn't too slow. I'm usually into more 'action', and I will get to it...I swear.

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Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter five, Shang-high

John woke with a dry throat and a splitting headache. It was the kind of headache that made him regret whatever he'd done the night previous before he'd even had a chance to actually remember what he'd done. Still fully dressed John found himself tangled in his bedsheets. Trying to get to his feet John fell to the floor.

"Sher..." John stopped as his stomach rebelled and he was sent into a fit of dry heaving. "Sherlock!"

John was not surprised when his friend didn't come to help him. Taking a deep breath to reorient himself John managed to get up. Looking and feeling like he'd spent the night heavily drinking John stumbled his way down stairs. Sherlock was at the kitchen table engrossed in something under the microscope. He took his eyes off the microscope just long enough to glance in John's direction.

"Good morning, John."

"'Good morning, John?'." John repeated in a sharp tone. "Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

"Pretty much. Why?"

"What happened last night?" John demanded.

"You don't remember?"

"Bits and pieces. It's slowly coming back to me, but none of it makes sense."

"You weren't making much sense yourself."

"What is this bitter taste?" John complained as he smacked his lips. "I vaguely remember you giving me something to drink...what was it?"

"Nothing really. Common stuff. You'll be fine." Sherlock said quickly in a dismissive tone. "Have some tea."

"Sherlock." John said sternly.

"It was just a little tincture."

"Tincture of what exactly?"

"Opium." Sherlock admitted. "I think."

"Opium you 'think'? Sherlock, that's laudanum?" John cried. "You dosed me with laudanum?"

"One little sip isn't going to kill you, John." Sherlock replied calmly. "I don't know why you're so upset. It's still used in hospitals today."

"I don't recall us being in a hospital at the time!"

Sherlock heaved his shoulders in a heavy sigh and finally turned his attention away from the microscope. At first John had been insulted that he didn't have Sherlock's full attention, but now that he had it he regretted it.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked with as close to concern as he could muster.

"I'm fine." John admitted.

"Then why the fuss?"

"Laudanum is dangerous stuff, you could have killed me."

"And you could have killed us both." Sherlock replied. "What were you thinking following me in there?"

"I was worried about you. We need to talk about your heroin problem."

"I don't have a heroin problem."

"I saw you."

"You saw an act. I have to assume I'm being watched, maybe even filmed while I am there. However, a little slight of hand to switch the heroin with a harmless compound has been keeping me clean."

John looked at Sherlock doubtfully. Sherlock just stared back at him. When John stepped up and took a hold of his wrist Sherlock made no protests. John pulled Sherlock's long shirt sleeve up to reveal a nasty set of needle track marks.

"I have to make it look real, John."

"I don't believe you."

"Fine." Sherlock huffed. He reached up and pulled out some of his black hair and offered it to John. "Take it. Test it. You have everything you need right here to do it."

"Don't think I won't."

"I don't think that you won't or I wouldn't be telling you to do it."

John thought about Sherlock's reasoning for a moment before giving in. When Sherlock saw that John wasn't going to take the hair he just let it drop to the floor and went back to his microscope. John ran his tongue over his laudanum fuzzy teeth before retreating to the lou to brush and shower. When he came back to the kitchen Sherlock had abandoned the microscope and was sitting on the leather love seat with John's computer. Ignoring the breach in privacy John sat down on the couch.

"So...tell me why exactly you've been frequenting a drug den. Just for kicks?"

"Basically."

"When I suggested you get a hobby, that's not what I had in mind." John pointed out.

"At first I thought it would be a good place to find and solve crimes, but there is only one crime going on there."

"Drugs."

"Exactly. Dull." Sherlock sighed.

"So why did you keep going back?"

"Partly because I found it relaxing."

"Relaxing? You find laying in a false drug stupor in dirty, diseased, drug ridden den with the lowest that London has to offer while possibly being under surveillance by men who would kill you if they found out you were clean relaxing?"

"Yes." Sherlock said with a smile twitching his lips. "I can lay there and get lost in a singular thought rather than having to deal with a thousand thoughts at once. It's like meditation, very zen."

"You can do that right here on the couch, in the relative safety of the flat."

"No, I can't, I've tried. I just get bored."

"But you didn't get bored there?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"There's a sound there, a sort of mechanical buzzing, coming from the floor above. I can't figure out what it is and laying there I find that I can devote my whole mind to that singular problem."

"And once your figure out what the noise is?"

"There are more advantages to the criminal underworld believing I'm a hopeless smack addict looking for a wash out."

"What?"

John hated being lost when talking to Sherlock, but he found himself in that position with alarming frequency. Before John could ask Sherlock to clarify the buzzer down stairs rang. Sherlock practically leapt to his feet, which was not how he usually reacted to guests.

"You expecting someone?" John asked.

"It's either a client, or someone finally coming to blackmail me."

"Blackmail?"

"I'm hoping it's that one too..."


	6. Chapter 6

Note from Phoenix: You Sherlock readers are a lot quieter than the White Collar crowd. I hope the story is still of interest to a few of you out there. I'll probably make this one just a short story.

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Six, Do you have the Time?

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Mrs. Hudson is out, so I'm going to go let our guest in."

"What? No..."

Downstairs the door was opened with a violent crack as it was kicked in.

"Never mind, they just let themselves in." Sherlock sat back down and opened a newspaper. "John, act casual."

"Yeah, right, why wouldn't I?" John rolled his eyes.

John went over to the couch and sat down as four men entered the flat. Sherlock pretended to look disinterested, but John could see his analytical eye sizing up their guests with a quick glance. Three of the men truly did seem to be of no importance to him, even to John's eye they looked like body guards.

The fourth man was much smaller than the others. John felt that he might even have a few inches of height over him. Despite his small statue and almost lizard like appearance the man radiated confidence and self importance. Well dressed in an exspensive suit he looked like he would be at home in Parliment. He had a leather bound folder in his hands. Without even glancing at John the man stepped up to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, I am..."

"I know who you are or at least what you are." Sherlock interrupted. "You're a criminal lawyer, or rather a lawyer criminal."

"Just so." The man confirmed.

"I don't deal with lawyers, criminals, or any combination of the two. Go away before I call the police."

"I have it on good authority that you are yourself a criminal of sorts these days."

"On whose authority?" Sherlock demanded.

"My client's of course."

"Your client is mistaken. Please leave."

The lawyer smiled sadly, shaking his head the way one does at a misbehaving child. The lawyer made a motion to one of his body guards who approached Sherlock. John tensed, but Sherlock seemed unafraid. Much like John had done earlier the man seized Sherlock's wrist. Rather than push up the sleeve he tore it open violently to reveal the track marks.

"Still care to deny your recent activities?"

"Was that necessary?" Sherlock asked as he played with the ruined sleeve. "This was one of my favourites."

"Mr. Holmes, we have been selling you very powerful stuff, only the best. You took to the white horse like you were born to ride. Three days into withdrawal and you will sell your own mother for a jab."

"My mother is dead. I can't imagine her ash has value to anyone other than myself."

"Is he always this literal?" The lawyer asked John in a casual tone.

John didn't grace the intruder with an answer. The lawyer just shrugged and turned his attention back to Sherlock. Still mucking with the tattered edges of his sleeve Sherlock ignored his dangerous guest. John wasn't sure what either party was playing at, but at this point all he could do was watch the two chess players.

"We control every speck of snow in this city and you are now officially on the 'do not sell to' list. If you don't want to end up vomiting on yourself in a methadone clinic you'll take our case."

"Case? That's what you want from me?" Sherlock asked with a spark of true interest. "You want me to solve a crime for you?"

"Naturally. What other use are you?"

"None really." Sherlock admitted freely.

The lawyer offered the thin leather bound to Sherlock. Taking the folder Sherlock only glanced at the contents before handing it back. The lawyer didn't seem surprised that Sherlock only need a few seconds with the folder. From his place on the couch John hadn't been able to see what was inside.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" The lawyer asked expectantly.

"JD #348-68." Sherlock quoted from the folder. "That's a classification for an unidentified corpse. A John Doe. Not much to go on. I assume it was murder."

"The mechanism of his death does not concern me."

"What does concern you?"

"His identity."

"So he is not a friend of yours?"

"That is what I need you to tell me, and only me."

"I see. You do know that you may request a viewing of any John Doe that you feel you might be able to identify. Why do you need me?"

"You'll see. Will you take the case Mr. Holmes?"

"Dull." Sherlock sighed.

"I feared you might say that." The lawyer smiled. "Let's see if we can make it more interesting for you."

John yelped in surprise as two of the body guards suddenly closed in on him. Sherlock instantly jumped to his feet to help his friend. The third guard grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt to stop him. Easily twisting free Sherlock lashed out and struck the man hard enough to break his nose. Remaining in Sherlock's path the guard didn't seem to even notice the blood, he looked the lawyer for permission to retaliate.

"Don't break any bones or knock him unconscious." The lawyer replied.

John managed to land one good punch on one of the men who had descended upon him, but was quickly restrained after that. One of the men clamped a tight metal band around his left wrist. Meanwhile Sherlock and the other guard found themselves fairly matched as they exchanged blows.

"That's enough." The lawyer said calmly.

The men holding John released him suddenly, causing him to drop back down onto the couch. The man fighting with Sherlock also stopped. Sherlock was not expecting the sudden surrender of his opponent and landed a solid enough hit to knock the man to the floor senseless.

"Alright, everyone calm down." The lawyer smiled. "Mr. Holmes, you have twelve hours from now to text my mobile with John Doe's true identity."

"Or else?"

"Or else your friend is going to have to learn to type with one hand."

John's blood flashed to ice as he took a closer look at his new jewelry. The metal band was actually a digital watch that was counting down from twelve hours. He instinctively went to remove the tight cuff.

"Don't tamper with that, Dr. Watson, it's explosive. There is a button combination that will inactivate it, but getting the code wrong or cutting the band will set it off."

Having given his ultimatum the lawyer silent instructed the two standing body guards to gather up the fallen third and they left. John stared at Sherlock in horror as the deadly watch continued to silently count down. Sherlock stepped up and took John's hand to inspect the watch. John didn't like the way his friend knit his brow.

"Sherlock?"

"This isn't exactly what I was expecting."

"Drug Lords can be an unpredictable lot." John snarled.

"Calm down, John. Everything is going to be alright."

"Why do your enemies keep trying to blow me up?"

"Because you're an easy target."

"Great. Thanks. Splendid."

"Come on. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"To meet John Doe #348-68. The clock is ticking."

"Literally."


	7. Chapter 7

NOTE: For some reason FFnet will no longer allow a question mark followed by an exclamation mark. It's ruining my drama!

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Seven, Rats!

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" John asked.

"Holding your wrist to your chest. If it goes off prematurely you'll end up dead rather than just maimed."

John looked down and saw that he was cradling the wrist with the deadly watch protectively against his chest. Moving slowly John held his arm out to the side awkwardly. His heart was still racing as they made their way into the basement morgue of Bartholomew Hospital.

"Sherlock, what if you identify this guy and they still don't give us the watch code?"

"That is a distinct possibility." Sherlock agreed.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't worry. I will identify the body quickly and leave us with plenty of time to either blackmail the lawyer in return or find a way to diffuse the watch. He was a fool to give me a full twelve hours."

"I'm sure if you asked nicely he'd reduce the clock for you." John huffed.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

John shot Sherlock a deadly glare. Sherlock flashed him a quick smile to show that he had been trying to be funny. John hated it when Sherlock attempted humor, it was unsettling, particularly given the current situation. John subconsciously brought his wrist up to his chest again, holding it as though it was injured. Sherlock reached over and pulled John's wrist back down.

"Don't tell, Molly." Sherlock instructed. "I don't need her panicking."

"Is it okay if I panic?"

"No."

Sherlock opened the double doors that lead into the morgue. Molly was siting at the lab bench working on some paperwork with her back to them and headphones in her ears. Sherlock walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Yelping in surprise the poor woman almost jumped out of her own skin. She turned with an irate expression which quickly turned to a shy blush when she discovered who the intruder was. Although she was slowly giving up on her crush for Sherlock she still became flustered any time he was near.

"Molly, I need a favour."

"Of course you do." Molly sighed. "What do you need?"

"John Doe #348-68."

"Trust me, you don't want to see him." Molly warned.

"I must."

"No, no, no, absolutely not." Molly said firmly. "I just put him in the cooler, I don't wan to drag that back out."

"Molly," Sherlock flashed his brightest smile "please. It's very important."

Molly looked nervously over at the wall of cooler lockers.

"Molly?" John asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's just gross."

"Not often that a morgue worker gets shaken." John noted. "Was he murdered?"

"No, drug over dose. But there were..."

"Molly," Sherlock interrupted "I need to see the body and quickly."

Molly looked down at her watch which painfully reminded John of the dangerous one he was wearing. She reached into her pocket and handed Sherlock the morgue keys.

"Locker 27." Molly pointed to the locker. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Put him back when you're done with him."

"Are you leaving?" John asked.

"I'm due to leave in half an hour anyway."

Molly glanced in the direction of the lockers one last time before hurrying away. Sherlock seemed undisturbed by Molly's odd behaviour and walked purposefully over to the lockers. Swallowing hard John worked up the courage to join him. Sherlock use the keys Molly had given him to open the locker. The large metal drawers slid into the wall refrigerator system to allow for easy storage before cremation. Sliding the drawer open revealed a body under a red stained white sheet. Sherlock ripped the sheet away to reveal John Doe.

"Good God!" John exclaimed as he stumbled back a few steps.

John wasn't sure what was going to be branded in his mind longer, the sight or the smell. Even cold the scent of blood and rot wafted up off the mutilated body. A flashing memory of trying to save a solider mortally wounded by a fire blast to the face didn't help John keep his stomach under control. The shock of the body combined with his lingering PTSD and the adrenaline from carrying an explosive on his wrist proved too much. John turned away and wretched noisily.

"For God's sake, John, you're a doctor." Sherlock huffed. "You should be able to handle this kind of thing. You must have seen worse in Afghanistan."

"Shut it, Sherlock." John growled.

Sherlock just shrugged and started his inspection of the remains. John forced his nerves to calm and turned to face the body once more. The face had been torn away leaving only bloody pieces of muscle clinging to exposed bone. With the lips gone the body had a wide white toothy grin that was made all the more macabre by the empty eye sockets. Undisturbed Sherlock leaned in close, inspecting the mangled face from all angles, occasionally getting a closer look with his small pocket magnifying glass. He studed the decaying remains as though they were a work of art that he was thinking of purchasing.

"I thought Molly said this was a drug over dose." John said.

"I'm sure it was."

"Then what happened to his face?"

"Rats."

"Rats?"

"You'd be amazed how fast even a single rat can reduce a human head to bone. Dying in a back alley is an open invitation for a feast. They don't even always wait until the person is dead. In fact some of these marks do appear premortum. As the overdoes reduced his heart rate he wouldn't have been able to fight them off."

"God..."

"In the middle ages rats were a common form of torture." Sherlock remarked coldly as he continued his inspection. "Being plentiful and cheap rats would be starved and then released into a cell with a bound victim. Sometimes they would even make a cut in the abdomen and place the rats inside a livi..."

"That's quite enough of a history lesson, Sherlock." John interrupted quickly. "I can see now why they need help identifying him. Not having a face and all."

"I was just thinking the opposite. This man should be instantly recognizable to anyone who knows him."

"What? How?"

"His ink."

Sherlock brought John's attention away from the horrific face and down to the chest. There were less chew marks on the torso which was nearly completely covered in brightly colored tattoos. There was an asian theme to the designs that formed a complicated scene over his chest and down his arms. The tattoo ended sharply at the wrists. The rats had eaten their way into the abdomen and had ruined part of the mural.

"A tattoo like this takes years to accomplish." Sherlock noted. "He would have been proud of such a work, he would have shown it off. Only a member of the Yakuza would keep such a work hidden, and he is not Yakuza."

"How do you know that?"

"His stature, parlour, and hair texture are not that of a Japanese man. The Yakuza are a very exclusive organization. Besides Yakuza are exceedingly rare in London. No, this is a caucasian, the tattoos are art for art's sake not related to a gang affiliation. He should be easy to identify."

"Great. Who is he then?"

"No idea." Sherlock said as he reached out and traced one one of the Kanji characters on the chest. "I can tell you his artist did not speak Japanese, or he was playing a joke."

"What do they say?"

"'Beauty is the chicken in the sun tiger.'."

"Not a very good joke."

"The characters were mostly chosen for their appearance only." Sherlock said. "Hmmmm..."

"Hmmm? What's hmmm?"

"Nothing." Sherlock muttered as he looked at the man's hand. "Why don't you use the computer to look for missing persons with tattoos."

John stayed a moment and watched as Sherlock stared at the corpse. He didn't like the look on Sherlock's face, it was the look he got when he was looking at something that didn't make sense. Despite his earlier confidence of being able to identify the man Sherlock had a disturbing air of doubt around him now. Sherlock seemed to realize that he was being watched and looked up at John.

"John, you're wasting time. If you want to keep your hand I suggest you help me."

"Right." John nodded. "You can do this...right?"

"Of course I can. Child's play."

Hours of uselessly sifting through missing persons reports later they were no closer to identifying John Doe than when they stepped into the hospital basement. Sherlock had long since given up on the body and had spent the last few hours testing the evidence on the man's clothing and shoes. The initial adrenaline of this morning had long since worn off and John found himself starting to dose as he continued to click through descriptions of London's lost. John didn't even realize he had drifted off to sleep until he was jolted awake by Sherlock nosily clearing the glass work from the lab bench in a sudden burst of rage.

"It doesn't make sense!" Sherlock roared in frustration. "Nothing about this man says 'heavily tattooed heroin user'! Nothing!"

"What does it say?"

"Married at least ten years, office worker, lower middle class, two cats, a young child perhaps two children, non smoker, social drinker, frequent back yard grill cook, uses public transit, neat, organized, type A personality, classic conservative conformist. Not the kind of man to be found eaten by rats covered in tattoos with an expensive drug habit!"

"Are the tattoos real?"

"Yes."

"There has to be a reason he tried the herion. Maybe he was depressed?"

"No. He was married, he was loved." Sherlock shook his head. "Someone would have reported him missing."

"You can't know that." John said. "Marriage doesn't mean love. Maybe his wife killed him, faking a drug over does?"

"If she was smart enough to murder him in such a fashion she would have been smart enough to report him missing. Police look very carefully at the spouse in a disappearance. She would have to be an idiot to not report him gone."

"I've gone through years of missing persons, no match for his tattoos. A tourist perhaps?"

"No, the residue on his shoes say he uses the tube for his daily commute." Sherlock growled. "His clothing show no signs of being anywhere near a drug den."

John's heart felt like it was in his throat as he realized that this might be one of the rare cases that Sherlock couldn't solve. Sherlock dragged his hands through his hair a few times as he looked around in increasing agitation. John was not feeling comforted.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

"How much time do we have?"

"Oh my God..." John stared down at the watch in horror. "We have less than three minutes!"

"Stay calm. I have plenty of information on this man, it might be enough to make our lawyer friend happy."

John held his breath as Sherlock texted all he'd learned to the number that he'd memorized from the folder that the lawyer had shown him. It only took seconds for Sherlock's phone to beep with a reply. Sherlock read the reply and glanced at John nervously.

"Well? What does he say?"

"He wants a name." Sherlock replied simply. "We need to minimize the damage."

"Sherl..."

John didn't get a chance to finish as the watch on his wrist began beeping as it counted down the final minute. Sherlock dashed across to the far side of the room. John didn't blame him from trying to get some distance from the pending explosion. However Sherlock wasn't abandoning him, he was simply getting his scarf. Rushing back over he snatched John's wrist. Wrapping the cloth around John's arm just above the watch he tied it in a tight tourniquet.

With the watch beeping towards the final seconds John tried to back away from his friend. Sherlock clamped his hand around John's forearm in a powerful painfully tight grip and held John's wrist out as far from them as possible.

"Get away from me!"

"You'll need help with the shock." Sherlock insisted.

"Sherlock..."

"John, I...I'm sorry."

John was out of time for protests as he glanced at the watch as saw that there was only five seconds left on the beeping timer. Sherlock brought his free hand up and pressed John's head against his chest to try and shield his face. Sherlock tucked his own head down and the pair waited motionlessly in an awkward embrace.

As the watched beeped out a fast pace alarm at the end of the timer John weld his eyes close and held his breath in an attempt to brace himself against the pain. Twenty seconds later he was forced to start breathing again. Everything was perfectly still. The only thing John could hear was Sherlock's racing heart. There was no explosion, no pain, nothing. Sherlock kept his grip on John's arm, but after a few more uneventful seconds passed he relaxed slightly.

"Um..." John broke the silence. "I'm starting to feel silly."

"Nothing happened."

"I noticed. Let me go."

Sherlock kept John close, still on alert for a late explosion. Eventually John wrestled himself free. Looking down at the watch he saw that now it was just telling him the time, just after midnight. His heart nearly failed him when Sherlock's mobile phone beeped out.

"Text." Sherlock said as he pulled his phone out. "It's the lawyer."

"What does it say?"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes.'." Sherlock read the text. "'Keep the watch...it's a clean as you are. Good bye.'."

"Wait...what?"

"Apparently the watch isn't an explosive, it's just a watch."

"So he knew you were pretending, he was bluffing, and know he doesn't care who John Doe is anymore?"

"It would seem that way."

"What was the point of all of this? !" John demanded angrily as he ripped the watch off and threw it to far corner of the room.

"A test."

"A test of what?"

"Of me...and I failed."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Eight, Perseveration

Walking down the street with groceries John stopped when his mobile started to ring. Putting down the bags he dug through his pockets in search of the ringing device. Glancing at the number before answering John frowned his brow.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector." John greeted.

"Dr. Watson." Lestrade greeted in turn. "I need you to get Sherlock to come to the Isle of Dogs."

"Why don't you call him then? I'm not Sherlock's keeper."

"Of course you are." Lestrade retorted. "Anyways, he's not answering his mobile. The last three cases I tried to get him interested in he wouldn't even look at, now he won't even answer the phone."

"He's been a little preoccupied the past few weeks."

"With what?"

"Identifying a John Doe."

"That doesn't seem like the kind of thing that would keep Sherlock's attention for long."

"It's been his only purpose for weeks. I can barely tear him away from the problem long enough to eat."

"Well drag him away for this."

"What's going on?"

"Neville St. Clair is missing."

"St. Clair? The actor?"

"That's him, but right now his only act is a disappearing one."

"Kidnapping?"

"We don't know. Just get Holmes down here. Now."

Lestrade gave John the exact address and hung up. Putting his mobile away John picked up the groceries once more and continued to head down Baker street. John doubted that he could get Sherlock to help Lestrade. Despite the fact that they hadn't heard from their 'client' finding the identity of John Doe had consumed Sherlock's life.

Getting to the top of the stairs John pushed the door open and stepped into the flat. Mrs. Hudson came rushing up to him looking flustered and upset. John glanced over her shoulder and found Sherlock pouring over some colourful sheets spread out on the kitchen table.

"I wish you two boys would find a healthier way to spend your time." Mrs. Hudson fretted. "It's just not right."

"What's not right?"

Mrs. Hudson was too distraught to continue and she just pushed past John and hurried down the steps. Concerned John brought the groceries into the kitchen to see what Sherlock was looking at. Taking a closer look at the large sheets on the table John's skin suddenly crawled.

"Sherlock...is this human skin?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "I wasn't able to keep them from cremating John Doe #348-68, but I was able to sneak in and save the evidence."

The sheets that Sherlock was pouring over was actually John Doe's chest and arm skin adhered to thick card stock paper. The familiar scent of decay told John that they were fresh and not preserved in any way. The skin would need to be placed in the fridge to keep it fresh, making John less inclined to put the food he'd just brought home in there.

"Wh...why didn't you just take pictures!" John stuttered. "You didn't have to skin a man and bring it into the house."

"I needed the actual tattoo so I can try to identify the exact ink. Also a picture can never give as much detail as the actual object that it depicts." Sherlock explained calmly.

"Sherlock, why is this so important to you?"

"It is more than this man's identity, John. There is something bigger going on here. I'm looking for our client's motivation."

"I don't care about his motivation, just as long as he doesn't come back."

"If I can figure out the artist I will have a good shot at identifying the man. Upon closer inspection I'm more convinced than ever that this was the work of one artist. He would have spent hours and hours working on this man, he will know who he is."

"How do you expect to find the artist? It's not like tattoo artists sign their work."

"All artists sign their work, John," Sherlock muttered as he inspected the ink "some are just more subtle than others."

"Maybe what you really need is a break. A new case perhaps."

"Lestrade called you."

"He did."

"I know, that's why I said so."

"He has a case."

"A good one?" Sherlock asked doubtfully.

"A mysterious disappearance."

"Murder?"

"Maybe."

Sherlock paused his inspection of the skin for a moment. John could practically see Sherlock weighing the pros and cons of a new case in his mind. Eventually Sherlock came back to reality.

"Okay." Sherlock nodded. "I'll go, under one condition."

"What's that?"

"You come with me afterwards to get a tattoo."

"Absolutely not. I am not getting a tattoo."

"It's not what you think. I want to harvest another tattoo from the morgue from a different body."

"Why?"

"To compare it to this one."

"What exactly would you be looking for?"

"I won't know that until I find it."

"Fine." John sighed. "But we are helping Lestrade first."

"Let's go."

"Get changed first." John ordered.

"Why?" Sherlock looked down at his shirt. "What's wrong with what I have on?"

"Nothing, other than the fact that you've been wearing it for over a week straight. If it doesn't get into the wash soon it's going to walk away on its own accord."

"Point taken."

"How did you even survive before I was around?" John sighed.

"It's a mystery."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Nine, Scene of the Crime

"My God, Lestrade, your men have trampled this scene like a herd of water buffalo." Sherlock growled.

"It's an indoor crime scene, Sherlock." Lestrade pointed out.

"So?"

"So what's to trample?"

"The carpet of course. Valuable evidence can be found in the way the carpet lays, but that's all gone now."

"Will you have a look around anyway?"

Sherlock pondered the question in his mind for a few seconds before rolling his eyes and getting to work. John looked around casually as Sherlock combed the scene. They were in a luxury penthouse flat of one of the tallest buildings on the Isle of Dogs. The floor to ceiling glass walls gave a breathtaking view of London. Lestrade stepped up next to John.

"How did you get him here?" Lestrade asked.

"By agreeing to participate in some less than legal activity later."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Fair enough." Lestrade nodded.

"John, come!" Sherlock barked from the next room.

John sighed and shook his head sadly.

"He treats you like a dog, you know that right?" Lestrade asked seriously.

"I know." John admitted.

"Why do you put up with it?"

"I don't know. I guess it beats the alternative."

"What's the alternative?"

John didn't have an answer for Lestrade, at least not one that he was willing to admit to out loud. In the time between coming home from the war and meeting Sherlock John's only true friend had been his gun. He had the weapon with him now, but he no longer had any intentions of using it on himself. Despite no longer having as strong an attachment to the weapon as he once did John was still grateful that Sherlock had retrieved it from the guard at the drug den.

"John!" Sherlock called again.

Lestrade looked a little annoyed at John for following Sherlock's rude demand. Ignoring the Inspector John walked towards the bedroom. As he came to the doorway he slammed into Sherlock who was coming the other way. Knocked back a step John took a breath to apologize but Sherlock wasn't interested he just made his way around John and rushed over to the large kitchen.

When John turned around Lestrade was looking at him with pity. Increasingly frustrated John grit his teeth and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock was rooting through the fridge, throwing the contents onto the floor.

"Sherlock, this is no time for a sandwich."

"I'm not looking for food."

"What are you looking for?"

"It is the fact that I'm not finding what I'm looking for that's important." Sherlock replied as he closed the fridge. "There's no crime here. Can we go?"

"What do you mean no crime?"

"St. Clair left in a hurry, but he left on his own accord. Can we go now?"

"What's all this about no crime?" Lestrade asked as he joined them in the kitchen.

For an answer Sherlock tossed a tiny glass bottle to Lestrade. When Lestrade held up the empty vile John had a chance to read the label.

"Insulin." John read out loud. "So St. Clair was diabetic."

"What does that have to do with him not having been kidnapped?" Lestrade asked.

"I found that in the bathroom trash. There are no needles, at least no unused ones." Sherlock explained. "His medicine cabinet is empty and there are no extra vials of insulin in the fridge. He took all his insulin supplies with him."

"The kidnappers could have done that."

"Unlikely. How long has he been missing?"

"Hard to pin point an exact time, but it did take three days for the studio to report him missing."

"And no ransom demands?"

"Not yet."

"If they took the insulin to keep him alive you would have demands by now, if they were going to murder him they wouldn't have bothered taking the insulin." Sherlock said to Lestrade before turning to John. "Can we go now?"

"What has gotten you in such a hurry to leave?" Lestrade demanded. "Don't you have any theories or ideas on where St. Clair went?"

"Who cares?"

"I care." Lestrade growled.

"You only care because he's famous." Sherlock pointed out. "If he was just some ordinary guy no one would care that he abandoned his job and skipped town. I don't care for actors and therefore I don't care where he went. There is no crime here, go find something to do with your time other than making the press happy."

"Sher..." Lestrade started as his face turned red with anger.

"John, please, can we go now?" Sherlock practically begged.

"Get out!" Lestrade barked.

"Thank you." Sherlock said seriously. "Next time you ask for my help, please make sure there is a crime first."

Lestrade made an aggressive move towards Sherlock. John hurried to step in between the two men. He had seen Sherlock bring his shoulders back slightly when Lestrade had stepped closer which was a sign that Sherlock was prepared to defend himself. The last thing John needed right now was a physical altercation between Sherlock and the Detective Inspector. Sherlock would win the physical fight in seconds, but Lestrade would have him behind bars in minutes for the insult.

"You have the patients of a Saint, Dr. Watson." Lestrade remarked as he backed down.

"I know." John agreed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a noise of frustration. John knew there was no sense in keeping Sherlock here any longer. He'd already lost interest in the case and any moment he was going to turn his boredom into destructive behaviour. It was one thing when he was tearing apart the Baker street flat, it was another thing entirely to destroy a well known actor's penthouse.

"Let's go."

Sherlock brightened instantly and headed for the private elevator that had brought them up here. Before John could follow Lestrade stopped him. With his hand on John's shoulder he leaned in close to his ear.

"What's wrong with him?" Lestrade whispered.

"Your guess is as good as mine." John shrugged.

"I mean what's wrong with him today. He seems particularly..." Lestrade paused as he searched for the word "distracted today."

"He has an unsolved case."

"Yeah you said, identifying some John Doe. He's had unsolved cases before. Why should a case like that matter so much to him?"

"Sherlock's taking this one personally."

"Why?"

"Because someone insulted his intelligence over it."

"I wonder if I could buy that person a drink." Lestrade smiled.

"He's a lawyer."

"Oh, never mind. I hate lawyers."

"John!" Sherlock called from the elevator. "John, we have to go! We have to go now!"

Lestrade chuckled at John and wished him luck. John went over to where Sherlock was holding the elevator door open. When John stepped onto the elevator Sherlock started pacing around like a caged tiger. He had his mobile in his hand and was staring at the screen intently.

"Sherlock, you have got to learn a little pa..."

"There's been another one." Sherlock interrupted with true excitement.

"Another what?"

"Rat attack."

Sherlock showed the mobile screen to John. The tiny picture of the mutilated corpse on the metal table was not as shocking as when he'd seen it in person. Like the other one this victim was missing most of his face, as well as a good part of his abdomen. He was more muscular and younger than the other man, but he also had tattoos covering his chest and arms.

"Molly just texted this to me."

"Who is it?"

"John Doe #458-29."


	10. Chapter 10

REWRITE NOTICE!

Okay, so a friend over at DA pointed out to me that I really didn't treat the triage scene right and misused Priority Four. And as much as I hate to admit it when other people are right, I still have the ability to admit it. So I rewrote this chapter to use the triage system a little better.

Don't say I never did noth'in fer ya!

Seriously I don't take everyone's advice when they think something isn't done right, but I do take advice when I know that they *are* right. The only way to get better at something is to listen to others.

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Ten, Priority Four

"Something wrong, Dr. Watson?"

"No, Colonel. Just tired, Sir."

"Don't worry, the Lull is coming soon."

"Lull, Sir?"

"No one's told you about the Lull?"

"No, Sir."

"Come with me."

John nodded and followed the Colonel out of the large medical tent and out into the staggering Afghan heat. The Colonel went over to the battered and rusted out pick up truck that he used for runs into town and got in. Getting into the passenger side John didn't question where his superiour was taking him. They didn't drive very far, just to the top of the large sandy hill that was about twenty minuets from their camp.

Getting out of the truck John followed the Colonel to the crest of the ridge. Looking down into the valley below John was shocked to see a brilliant field of bright red flowers. The lush field of flowers looked comically out of place in the arid desert. John tensed and went for his sidearm when he caught sight of a man with an automatic assault weapon wandering through the field.

"At ease, Doctor." The Colonel smiled. "He won't bother us if we don't bother him."

"Is this a poppy field?"

"Beautiful isn't it?"

"Yes, but...I doubt this is being harvested for morphine."

"No, this is for heroin."

"Why are we allowing a poppy field to be so close to the base, Sir?"

"The fields are under American protection."

"You're kidding."

"Not at all." The Colonel said seriously.

"Why?"

"The simple answer: money. The complex answer: destroying the poppy fields will just drive more Afghani to the Taliban. It is the locals only source of income. In a few days the poppy fields will be ready for harvest and there will be a sudden drop in violence. It's a mutual truce while the opium is being harvested."

"The Lull?"

"Exactly. We look forward to it every season. You can catch up on your sleep then, Doc."

"That's...that's horrible. I don't want to catch up on sleep because the whole country suddenly goes into a frenzy of illegal drug production."

"You take what you can get in a War, Doctor."

"I guess."

"Listen, John, I know you're only here because of your father and he and I go wa..."

The Colonel's radio suddenly squawked at him. Which was just as well, the last thing John wanted to do right now was have a heart to heart with his father's old gambling buddy. John heard the radio chatter about and unknown number of incoming wounded and his heart sank. In the three months since his tour started John had lost far more patients than he had managed to save. They rushed back to the truck and tore down the hill back to the base. The nurses were already setting everything up for the arrival. The Colonel was a seasoned surgeon himself and at the moment the only other true doctor on staff due to cut backs.

"Any more details on what is coming in?" The Colonel asked the head nurse.

"Some sort of coordinated multiple suicide bombing, Sir." The Lieutenant reported.

"How many are inbound?"

"Unknown, could be up to a dozen."

"What?" The Colonel exclaimed. "We can't handle a number like that. Get on the horn and send them to Hawthorn."

"Most are being sent to Hawthorn, Sir. This is the over flow that they can't handle."

"Shit. Okay, start the triage at the door. No one gets through that isn't bleeding or broken in some way, I don't need friends of the wounding getting underfoot. Also if it doesn't have a pulse it stays outside."

"Yes, Sir."

"Dr. Watson, triage rules apply, including Priority 4. Understood?"

"Priority 4?" John asked in shocked. "But, Si..."

"Do you understand or not?" The Colonel growled.

"Understood, Sir."

John paced nervously while they waited for their patients. Any thoughts of being tired had vanished with the adrenaline of the impending carnage. John had been so shocked by the 'Priority 4' comment because as far as he knew no one had ever enacted a 'Priority 4' in the field. He prayed that it didn't come to that.

The first ten minutes of the arrival of the wounded was utter chaos. There were closer to thirty wounded. Just a quick glance showed that more than half of them were critical. Things were further complicated by the fact that along with British soldiers there were also a few Americans, several aid works, and a handful of locals.

John stayed out of the way and out of the inevitable pissing matches that ensued when a local was deemed in greater need than a solider. The Colonel quickly put an end to any and all arguing and within minutes the tent began filling with those in true dire need.

The Colonel barked for John to take over the first man brought in and he instructed them to bring him over to the table. They had thrown a rough burlap blanket over him that was already soaked through with blood. The young man was unconscious but he was breathing even if just barely. In the background John could hear one of the other men crying out as the others tended to his wounds.

"Get a line in him, push fluids and two units of dopamine." John ordered the two nurses assisting him. "Keep the anesthesia as light as humane, we can't risk slowing down his breathing much more than this."

John reached out and took a hold of the blanket to pull it off. His breath hissed across his teeth at the sight of the damage. Shrapnel had torn his abdomen to shreds, his upper intestines were exposed to the air and peppered with gravel and rust. Blood pooled and spilled from the devastating wound making it difficult to see the true extent of the problem.

After a quick assessment John dove in and tried to identify the main source of the bleeding. While the nurses worked to suction the blood and wash away the debris John started placing clamps on the myriad of bleeding arteries. Pushing aside a portion of intestines John suddenly came across a large piece of metal.

"Damn it." John growled.

"Watson!" The Colonel called from his table across the way. "Status of you boy?"

"I just found a large piece of shrapnel." John announced as he slipped his fingers down along the metal to see how deep it went. "It's embedded in the aorta."

"Can it be fixed?"

"No."

"Then move on."

"Yes, Sir."

With the invasive metal being the only thing keeping the young man alive it was pointless to continue. John pulled his blood soaked hands out of the doomed patient and ripped off his gloves. One of the medics assisting him gave him a towel soaked in alcohol so that he could clean off somewhat before re gloving and moving on to the next. The alcohol stung at his eyes and for a breif moment the stench of it over powered that of the blood.

Two grueling hours later John was literally soaked to the skin in blood. Of the six men he'd gotten to five were already dead. He had just started his assessment on the sixth and he was determined not to lose another one. They had sent out a call for help from anyone with medical training in the vicinity, but no one was coming. The solider had been given a great deal of morphine but he was still panting in pain as tears streaked his bloodied face.

This was the first case that John had come to that was still conscious which gave him hope for his survival. John introduced himself. Although the young man was unable to speak from the combination of shock and pain he still managed to acknowledge John and even forced a brave smile.

Pulling the blanket back John examined the extensive burns and laceration that covered the man's lower half. Using the rule of nines John estimated the injuries took up about 45% giving him a Baux score that was 'survivable'. If the burns were the only problem it would be more managable, but the shrapnel that had torn into the thigh muscle was a different story.

"Sargent," John tried to get the man's attention "I can help you, but it will require amputation."

Although his eyes filled with terror the young Sargent nodded.

"Okay, everything's going to be okay. I promise." John assured.

John motioned to the nurse to put the man under anesthesia as he started draping the area. Before slipping into sleep the solider reached out and tugged on John's blood soaked uniform. John turned to see what he wanted but it was too late he had fallen into unconsciousness.

"I'm going to need at least fifteen units, more likely thirty." John called out to one of the medics. "Unfortunately he's O neg so that's what I nee..."

"No!" The Colonel barked from where he was working on his own case.

"Sir?" John asked as he looked up in shock.

"Leave him."

"If I remove the legs he has a chan..."

"Dr. Watson we do not have that kind of blood to spare. You do a double amputation under these conditions the infection will probably kill him if the surgery doesn't, which it probably would anyway. Move on, Doctor."

"Si..."

"John!" The Colonel roared. "Get your ass to the next in line, that is an order solider!"

"Y...yes, Sir..."

John was jolted from the painful memory when Sherlock put his hand on his shoulder. Jerking away from Sherlock John took a few steps away from the table that held the new John Doe. Of the eighteen men John had touched that day only three survived the night. The way the rats had eaten away at the abdomen had sparked the flash back, leaving John feeling physically ill. The face was in worse condition than the first Doe. Unable to look at the gory any longer he turned his back on the body.

"Joh..."

"I can't help you on this one, Sherlock." John interrupted quickly. "I'm sorry."

"John, there have been two of these bodies in the spans of a month. You know this is murder. I need your medical experience on this. I need to know absolutely everything about this man."

"I'll look at the autopsy report for you."

"It's worthless. The coroner labeled it as a simple drug over dose and moved on. I need to know this man's health, conditions, what he last ate, his ha..."

"I'm sorry, I can't. I have to go."

John didn't want to hear anymore and started to leave. Sherlock jump into action and beat him to the doors. He put himself between John and the exit. John tensed to show his friend that he was prepared to strike him if he had too. Sherlock made no move to protect himself from any incoming violence.

"Out of my way, Sherlock." John warned darkly.

"What does 'Priority Four' mean?"

"What?" John automatically took a step back, his blood turned to ice from just hearing the words out loud.

"I hear you at night sometimes, nightmares I suspect. I've never felt it my place to wake you." Sherlock explained quickly. "The term 'Priority Four' is often the only words that make sense, and you whispered them just now when I pulled back the sheet. What does it mean?"

"It's an Army triage term: 'Likely to die, even with treatment'."

"What do you do in those cases?"

"You abandon them, you leave them when they need you the most."

"This killer's next victim isn't a Priority Four, not yet anyway. Please John, I need your help on this. Don't leave now."

John took a breath to retaliate but couldn't think of anything to say. Sherlock stepped to the side so that John could leave now if he wanted to. John looked over his shoulder at the man laid out on the metal table. If it was anything like the last victim the evidence would not point towards a habitual drug user.

"Damn you, Sherlock." John growled in defeat.

"This will save lives John, I promise."

"Just don't mock me if I throw up."

"I never mock."

"Yeah...right."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Eleven, The Collection on the Mantle

Standing under the hot spray of a much needed shower John closed his eyes for a moment. Letting the water slip down his back John took a deep breath and managed to relax. Doing the autopsy hadn't been as bad as he'd thought it was going to be. Working on the dead didn't hold the same kind of pressures that working on the dying did. Even still he was glad to have it over with and hoped that the shower would help wash off the scent of decay.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he suddenly flung the shower curtain open.

"Gaw!" John cried in surprised terror. "Sherlock? ! Get out of here! I'm in the shower!"

"I know that."

"Then leave!"

"Did you read this?" Sherlock asked as he held up a familiar printed page.

"I wrote the bloody thing you wanker! Now go away!"

"But th..."

"Out!"

Sherlock rolled eyes and snapped the white shower curtain shut again. Adrenaline from the unexpected intrusion had John's heart slamming against his ribs. Any calm he'd gained from the start of the shower was lost now. Turning off the water John got out of the shower and dried off quickly. Slipping into a robe John stepped out into the living room. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't wait long before barging in again.

"I thought I'd locked the door." John muttered as he toweled off his hair.

"You did." Sherlock said casually. "The real trouble with locks is that they only keep honest people out, there's no real sense in them at all."

"What was so important that you had to break in on my shower?"

"The stomach contents of the most recent John Doe." Sherlock lifted up the autopsy report that John had written. "'Cucumber, white bread, hard salami, lettuce, strawberries, and either an orange or possibly orange juice with pulp.'."

"Right? So?"

"St. Clair's fridge had those exact items. I saw them while looking for the insulin."

"Most of the ice boxes in London have those things." John countered. "Except of course for our's since there is currently ten pounds of human skin taking up most of the room."

"It's five pounds at the most." Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Don't you see the significance here?"

"Um...no."

"The two cases are connected!" Sherlock exclaimed gleefully.

"I thought you said there wasn't a crime at St. Clair's."

"I did, didn't I?" Sherlock mused thoughtfully for a moment. "I've changed my mind. I think the latest John Doe was with St. Clair, eating with him at his flat. They had some connection to one another. St. Clair may not even be a victim, he may in fact be our killer."

"That doesn't even begin to make sense, Sherlock."

"It doesn't make sense yet, but it will. But first we need positive IDs on both Does."

"How are we going to do that?"

"I've been studying both sets of tattoos and although they are different themes they are the same artist."

"So we need to find the artist."

"Exactly."

"Ho..."

John was interrupted by a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson came in with a small box in her hand which she offered to Sherlock.

"The post just dropped this off for you, Sherlock. No return address." Mrs. Hudson said as she eyed the box suspiciously. "If you don't mind I'd rather not know what's inside."

Mrs. Hudson handed over the parcel and hurried away. John didn't blame her. There was no telling what kind of things Sherlock got in the mail.

"I've been waiting for this!" Sherlock said with a bright smile. "I hope it's a good one."

"What is it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He tore the plain brown paper wrapper off the box and opened it. The box was full of little white packing peanuts. Sherlock rummaged around inside until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a small oriental dragon made of blue glass and let the box fall to the floor. John was sharply reminded of the blue dragon painted above the door at the opium den. Holding the tiny glass creature in his palm Sherlock inspected it intently.

"Oh, very nice." Sherlock admired the figurine. "A perfect addition to my collection."

"I didn't know you collected anything other than human body parts. Little glass trinkets don't really seem your style."

"It's more than just a glass dragon, John. It's a death threat."

"A death threat?" John repeated in alarm.

Going over to the mantle Sherlock hunted for a place to display the new prize. John had often looked at the curios that Sherlock kept on the mantle. In the sea of chaos that was their flat the one place that Sherlock seemed to keep order was the top of the mantle. Along side the human skull was a variety of trinkets including a gold coin, a piece of parchment with a blob of black wax on it, several ornate Tarot cards, an origami lotus flower, a rabbit's paw, a piece of broken mirror, a seagull feather, along with a few other objects John couldn't identify. Sherlock found a place of honour for the new dragon and stood back to admire it.

"Wait...are those all associated with death threats?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "I throw away the ones just scribbled out on paper, but if someone is thoughtful enough to send me a proper threat I keep it."

"So that skull was sent to you as a warning?"

"Of course it was. Why else would someone send me a skull?"

"Knowing you, I assumed it was a birthday present."

"Then you don't know me that well. I don't celebrate birthdays. Nothing special about a birthday, there isn't a single person alive that doesn't have one."

John shook his head sadly, he knew there was no arguing this point with Sherlock. Bending down John picked the box that the dragon had come up off the floor and looked inside. Tucked in the box along with the foam was a small card that had a typed out message on it.

"There's a note in here." John announced as he pulled out the card.

"A banal threat of some sort I'm sure."

"'Don't bother chasing the dragon, Mr. Holmes. No one ever catches her, they only manage to die trying.'."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Twelve: The Nightlife

It had been several days since Sherlock had received the glass death threat and so far nothing sinister had happened. Far from having given up on the case Sherlock was still hard at work combing through the evidence. It was close to midnight and he was sitting at the kitchen table studying a map of London. He was making marks on the map while cross referencing his journal.

Content to stay out of it John was lounging on the couch reading a book. It was difficult to truly concentrate on the novel because every few minutes Sherlock's phone would chime with a new text message. He didn't reply to any of them, he just glanced at them. Some seemed to hold his attention longer than others. John was just trying to get back to his book when Sherlock's phone chirped again.

"Sherlock, your phone has been beeping all night." John put his book down in frustration. "It's driving me nuts."

"It's the homeless network. I'm having them send me pictures of various tattooed individuals in an effort to find our artist. If we can find someone living with his art work we'll have a better chance finding him, and the closer we'll be to identifying our John Does."

"Any luck so far?"

"It's not 'luck'." Sherlock countered. "I have dozens of examples that closely match our artist's skill level, it is hard to know for certain if any of them were truly inked by the same hand. It's not like inspecting a Monet. What is not making any sense is that I also sent the network pictures of the John Does' tattoos to see if anyone recognizes the men. Not a single person has laid claim to the dead men. It's like they're not missed."

"People go missing all the time, Sherlock."

"Yes, but *someone* is usually looking for them. Police, family, friends, people they owed money to, someone. If I disappeared tomorrow there would be at least one person who would look for me."

"Maybe even two." John teased.

"Mycroft won't look for me. If I disappear I can guarantee you my brother will be the one responsible."

Seeing that Sherlock was getting increasingly frustrated John got up off the couch and came over to the kitchen table. The back alleys where the two John Does had been found were marked with Xs. The bodies had been a few miles apart, but still in the district that designated them to be sent to Bartholomew Hospital rather than one of the other city morgues. The map also had several locations circled on it with little hash marks next to the circles counting something. Sherlock's phone beeped again. As he picked it up John looked at the image that came up on the screen.

"Oh God, that's disgusting."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he squinted at the screen.

"The picture's upside down."

"Ah." Sherlock turned the phone over. "Oh...I didn't know you could tattoo that, let alone put so many piercing in it."

"Gawd, makes me cringe just thinking about it."

"I wonder if it still works." Sherlock chuckled.

"Probably never worked in the first place." John smiled.

"That would explain quite a lot." Sherlock agreed in an amused tone as he erased the picture.

Going back to his map Sherlock stared at the marks as if they would suddenly tell him something new. If John was reading the symbols on the map correctly then Sherlock had a wide net of people on the look out for anyone with a connection to the Does.

"So, have you learned anything?" John asked seriously.

"Of course I have." SHerlock snapped. "I've learned a greater understanding of the lengths people will go to in order to label themselves as either part of a certain group or as individual extremists. All of these tattoos tell a story, some more than others. Take this one for instance..."

Sherlock scrolled through his messages until he came to the tattoo he was looking for and held it up for John. It was a little difficult to see on the small screen but it looked like a tattoo of a corner store front with a body laying in a puddle of blood on the front step inked across a man's chest. Next to it was a detailed tattoo of a handgun.

"Is that a crime scene?"

"It is. I even happen to remember the crime, it was five years ago. At first it looked to be a random shooting, but I always suspected was a gang initiation motivated slaying. I appear to have been correct. This man was so proud of his first kill that he had it immortalized on his skin."

"That's insane."

"And none too bright." Sherlock sighed. "I've forwarded his photo and location over to Lestrade."

"You mean he hadn't been caught until now?"

"Nope. His tattoo is going to be difficult to explain in court."

"I'll say."

Sherlock's phone chirped again. The new photo that came up was of a tiger and a waterfall running down a man's arm. This picture seemed to capture Sherlock's interest as he studied it. Going to the map he sought out one of the circles that had more than a dozen hash marks next to it and ticked off another one. This time Sherlock finally replied to the text, but only to have the word spread that he had enough photos. John wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's homeless spies got in return for their services, but they were a loyal crowd.

"Alright, let's go." Sherlock said as he jumped to his feet.

"Go? Go where? It's after midnight."

"The nightlife is just getting started. I've been mapping out where people with tattoos similar in style to our John Does have been spotted by the network. Whoever our tattooist is they are good, a true artist, not some hack slinging flash on any customer with cash."

"Flash?"

"The standard art found on the walls of a tattoo parlour."

"How do you know so much about tattoos?"

"The internet." Sherlock replied with a shrug.

John followed Sherlock over to the front closet. Sherlock tossed John his jacket after throwing on his own coat. As Sherlock tied on his scarf John thought about a question that he probably didn't want to know the answer to, but felt he needed to ask anyway.

"How does a homeless man, or anyone for that matter, go about getting a photo of a tattoo in such an intimate location? 'Hi, do you have any tattoos? Oh just the one on your neithers? Mind if I take a snap?'."

"Considering the picture was upside down I assume it was his own."

"And he decided to share?"

"I'm sure he's proud."

"I bet his mother is too." John muttered sarcastically.

"Lighten up, John." Sherlock suggested.

"No thank you. I think I'll stay just as prudish as I am right now."

Sherlock smiled and started off down the stairs. Walking a few blocks down Baker Street the pair caught a cab. When Sherlock told the cabbie where he wanted to go both John and the cabbie asked him if he was sure. John realized that he should have known from the start that their midnight outing was not going to be to the best neighborhood, but Sherlock's destination was an open invitation to get mugged and beaten. The cabbie shrugged and agreed to take them as long as they paid up front and got out quickly when they got there.

Standing on the street corner in one of London's least desirable areas John felt painfully out of place. In the distance John could make out the thumping of loud music.  
A group of obvious prostitutes across the street cat called at them, something about asking if they were 'buying or selling' before laughing among themselves. John flushed a bright red, but Sherlock didn't seem to even notice the women. He was busy inspecting the layout of their new location. Suddenly turning to his left Sherlock walked at a brisk pace towards a back alley.

"This way." Sherlock said confidently.

"Sherlock," John called as he rushed to catch up "whatever it is we are doing, it's a really bad idea. We don't exactly 'blend' around here."

"I don't 'blend' anywhere I go."

"True. However..."

John didn't get a chance to finish his argument. Sherlock found the exact address he was looking for and opened the door. The sudden blast of music was almost enough to physically knock John back. Sherlock didn't hesitate to dive into the blinding noise. John wasn't sure he was going to follow, even from out on the street the music was rattling his teeth.

Afraid of being left alone on the street to be mugged or murdered John braced himself and followed Sherlock inside. The doorway lead to a small dark hallway that held another door at the end. John hadn't thought it possible, but beyond the second door the music was even louder. The acrid smoke that filled the club didn't help John's senses make sense of the situation.

The large crowded nightclub was jumping, literally and figuratively. Various multi coloured and strobe lights added to the general chaos and sensory overload. In the heart of the wide open floor plan was a mob of people dancing or possibly having a massive simultaneous epileptic fit, John couldn't decide which. The fringes of the club held a mish mash of tables, chair, sofas, and other furniture that had obviously been left on the curb to be tossed. Among the piles of furniture people with more tattoos than clothing lounged and drank.

John stepped on something that crunched under his shoe. Looking down he saw a handful of small pills, one of which was now reduced to a white powder. He doubted it was Aspirin, in fact from the look of the crowd he suspected it was ecstasy. A few people eyed John suspiciously, but most were too drunk or drugged to care.

The bass line vibrated in John's chest as the music relentlessly pounded. At first John was far too disoriented to even look for Sherlock. After a few painful minutes he gathered himself enough to seek his friend out. Sherlock wasn't difficult to spot. He was the one in the long coat walking up to complete strangers and studying their exposed tattoos like they were a display in an art museum.

John held his breath, just waiting for someone to take offense to Sherlock's curiosity and take a swing at him. To John's surprise no one seemed put off by the attention. Several men even pulled up their sleeves to offer him a better view. It wasn't long before Sherlock had a dozen or so heavily tattooed men chatting with him like they were old friends. John was stunned by how civil the dangerous looking men were.

As John walked up to join his friend Sherlock brought out his phone and showed pictures of the John Does' tattoos to the group. Even standing right next to them John couldn't hear a word of the conversation over the music. Passing around the phone the men shook their heads or shrugged. One of the men seemed to have more to say, but John couldn't hear any of it When Sherlock got his phone back he turned to John.

"..." Sherlock said.

"What? !" John screamed in an attempt to raise his voice above the music.

"..." Sherlock repeated.

"What? !"

"..." Sherlock said louder.

When it became clear that John couldn't hear him Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed John's wrist. John didn't need Sherlock to drag him out of the club, he was more than happy to leave. Back out on the dark street John's ears were still ringing. John rubbed his temple as he felt a headache coming on. Sherlock looked no worse for the wear.

"Well..." Sherlock smiled "that was productive."

"How so?"

"I have a name. Ethan Kellis, a talented artist that might just be the man we wish to speak to."

"Where can we find him?"

"That's an excellent question...he's been missing for over a month."


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Thirteen, Ashes to Ashes

"Ah, Sherlock...you take me to all the best places."

"I rather think this about the last place most people would want to find themselves after dark, or in broad daylight for that matter."

"Sarcasm." John sighed.

"Ah. Sarcasm usually means you are unhappy."

"No, I'm perfectly happy wandering lost through the slums of London at three o'clock in the morning with a ringing in my ears that still hasn't stopped."

"More sarcasm?" Sherlock asked seriously.

"Yes."

"Then call a cab and go home."

"I'm not leaving you here alone."

"If you're not going to do anything about your situation then why are you bothering complaining to me about it?"

"I was trying to subtly hint that we should both take a cab and go home."

"Then you probably should have just said that. It would save time."

"Fine: 'Sherlock, I think we should both take a cab and go home.'."

"No."

When Sherlock continued down the dark back alley John briefly reached up and pantomimed throttling his friend. Concentrating on looking for the landmarks in the vague directions they'd been given Sherlock didn't notice John's frustrations. John looked around at the decaying buildings and considered turning back. When Sherlock disappeared into one of the doorways John sighed and hurried to catch up.

The apartment complex they had entered had eviction papers and condemned building warnings plastered on it. However that didn't seem to be keeping the current tenants from living there. They would probably wait until the bulldozers were on the front step before finding somewhere else to be. Although sounds of life could be heard behind the closed doors no one stepped out into the hall to challenge Sherlock and John's right to be there.

At the end of the first hall was a stairwell that reeked of urine. Four stories up they counted the doors on the right of the dimly lit hall until they came to the sixth apartment. They had no way of knowing if the unofficial address actually belonged to Ethan Kellis. It was just rumoured to be his last known residence before he fell off the grid.

"So...do we knock?" John asked.

"I suppose that would be the polite thing to do."

Sherlock reached out and knocked on the hollow wooden door. The pair waited in silence for a moment. When nothing happened John hoped that it meant that they could just leave, but he knew that wasn't going to be the case. Sherlock tried the door knob and the door swung open easily.

"Sherlock, I don't think this is a good id..."

John didn't bother finishing. Sherlock stepped inside and started looking around. Wrinkling his nose against the musty smell John followed him. The front room and open kitchen of the small apartment had a haphazard collection of furniture in it. It looked like someone had made an effort to make the place a 'home'. There were some dishes stacked next to the sink that had been washed, but now were covered in dust.

The far corner caught Sherlock's attention first. Taped to the wall were a variety of drawings above a small desk that clearly had acted as a work station. Dragons, both eastern and western, were the primary theme of the hand drawn works. However there was a full range of animals and half naked woman among the pages. Sherlock stepped up to a drawing of a clump of bamboo that had Chinese writing next to it.

"'Beautiful dead panda luck'." Sherlock read the oriental writing. "His grasp of Chinese is certainly no better than the artist that we're looking for."

"You would think before getting something permanently drawn on your skin that you'd make sure it made sense."

"Over the past few days I've seen an alarming number of tattoos in English that are not even spelled correctly."

Losing interest in the drawings Sherlock wandered through the archway that lead into the bedroom. John stood in the doorway and glanced into the room with little interest. There was a small bed on the floor pushed up against the far wall. The floor was littered in bits of trash. It was also stained in placed with splashes of dried ink.

"Sherlock, it's obvious no one has been here in ages. Can we plea..."

"Be quiet." Sherlock said sharply as he held his hand up. "Don't move."

John was long past being insulted by Sherlock's orders for silence, he never made the request without a good reason. John watched as Sherlock stood motionless in the centre of the room. With his eyes darting around Sherlock took in the whole scene, down to the very last detail. When he cocked his head to the side John wondered if the room was actually speaking to him. Perhaps there really was a song playing that only Sherlock could hear, or a dramatic play that only he could see. At the moment all John could hear was the muffled argument of a couple down the hall.

Oblivious to the distractions of the outside world Sherlock slowly began to move with the ghosts that danced around him, telling him their grisly story. Kneeling down Sherlock picked up the invisible thread of the past and followed it through the crime. John was looking at the same evidence, but he knew he wasn't seeing the same things that Sherlock was.

Careful not to actually touch any of the objects around him Sherlock out stretched his hand over each item of interest in turn. There were small bits of trash, cigarette butts, and a couple empty beer bottles strewn about. However out of the mess only a few things seemed to hold Sherlock's intense attention. A cigarette burned completely to ash lay next to a pile of crumpled pieces of tin foil. A discarded lighter was peeking out from under a dirty shirt that held stains that could be from a number of sources. Sherlock traced a scuff mark that marred the filthy floor.

John didn't even realize he was holding his breath until his lungs began to burn. Sherlock was still kneeling in the month's worth of dust that had settled on the floor staring at the patterns. John's sudden intake of breath seemed to pull him out of his hypnosis and he got back to his feet. Rising up to his full height Sherlock pulled his shoulders back and stared vacantly at the door on the far side of the room.

"Sherlock?"

"Someone died here." Sherlock whispered. "A woman."

"Murder?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head slowly as he looked back down at the cigarette ashes on the floor. "He tried to save her. He tried to save her long after she was gone, but there was nothing he could have done."

"What happened?"

"Drugs."

"Heroin? I don't see any needles."

"The tin wads on the floor, those would have been in the shape of little square boats. The cigarettes would have also been wrapped in tin at one point. With the lighter the heroine is heated until it burns. The smoke is inhaled through the cigarette, which is then later smoked as well. The method of smoking is commonly called 'chasing the dragon'."

"I've heard that phrase recently."

"'No one ever catches her, they only manage to die trying.'" Sherlock muttered as he recalled the wording of the most recent death threat. "She did die trying, laid down on her back, right here." Sherlock pointed at a spot on the floor that only held dust. "Either her heart stopped from overdose or she aspirated on her own vomit. Either way he straddled her and pounded on her chest in a pointless attempt to save her."

John looked at the pattern of the scuff marks around the area that Sherlock had pointed out. He could imagine that the marks had been made by the toes of someone's shoes as they sat on the prone body attempting a crude form of CPR that was doomed to fail.

Carefully stepping over the evidence Sherlock made his way over to the door that he'd been staring at. John furrowed his brow when he noticed that Sherlock was hesitating to open the door.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"She's still here."

"What?"

Sherlock opened the door and stood to the side. John carefully made his way over and looked into the small bathroom. It was hard to understand what he was looking at at first. The translucent shower curtain had been torn down and securely taped down over the bathtub with silver duct tape. Under the curtain was a pool of crimson. There was a vague scent of decay, but not the over powering stench that usually came along with a month old corpse. The sealed plastic curtain over the tub was keeping most of the rot contained.

"This is why no one has seen the artist." Sherlock said coldly. "He did his best to ensure she wouldn't be found for some time and ran."

"How do you know that's a woman and not Ethan himself?"

"This whole place has a woman's touch to it, even if it was a woman deep in the grips of a crippling drug addiction, she still tried to nest here. Besides Ethan was described as a tall man, nearly my own height, he would not fit in the bathtub without being chopped into bits first and there is no sign of a dismemberment which is always messy business."

"So now what?"

"Call Lestrade. Despite the glaring evidence to the contrary he will want to treat this as a murder. In either case it is his mess to clean up."

"I do not want to be here when they take the cover off."

"Agreed."

Sherlock wandered off back into the main room while John called Lestrade. The Detective Inspector was not happy about being woken in the early hours of the morning. He was even less impressed to hear about the human soup in the bathtub. As John hung up he heard the refrigerator door slamming shut in the kitchen.

"How could I be so stupid? !" Sherlock snarled at himself.

When John stepped out into the living room Sherlock was already heading out the front door. John rushed out into the hallway where Sherlock was halfway to the stairs.

"Sherlock, wait!" John called. "Lestrade wants us to wait for him here."

"Then wait."

"Sherlock..."

It was too late, Sherlock reached the stairs and was gone. John broke into a run and made it to the top of the stairwell, Sherlock was already two flights down and was taking the stairs two at a time in his rush.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

John didn't get an answer as Sherlock made it down to the ground level. Not interested in being left behind John hurried down the zig zagging stairs. When John got out into the street there was no sign of Sherlock. John glanced around the deserted alley before shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

"I'll just stay here then, shall I? Right. I'll just...stay here." John grumbled to the empty alley. "That's probably best. Wouldn't want to slow the great Sherlock Holmes down now do I?"


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Fourteen, Dawn

The first red streaks of dawn were staining the sky when John finally made it back to Baker street. Lestrade had been far more annoyed than anything else when he arrived at the rundown apartment. Just as Sherlock had predicted Lestrade processed the scene as a murder. It wasn't because he particularly wanted to, it was procedure to rule out homicide first. John had tried to excuse himself to go look for Sherlock, but after being dragged out of bed Lestrade was not about to let John just leave him with the mess.

Having been awake for nearly twenty-four hours John was beyond exhausted. He wasn't even sure if he could sleep right now even if he tried. At the moment he was more worried about Sherlock than about getting any sleep. He had called his mobile over a dozen times, but he never got an answer. Sherlock had clearly made some sort of revelation and there was no telling where it had taken him.

Unsure of what to do John was now climbing the flight of stairs up to their shared flat. He had asked for Lestrade's help, but the Detective Inspector was only going to go chasing after Sherlock if he knew where to start looking. They already knew that the original den had closed up shop right after the lawyer had enlisted Sherlock's services. John feared that Sherlock had run off to go confront some dangerous drug lord in some underground slum that could be anywhere in the city.

"Or he could be sleeping on the couch."

Having stepped into the flat John discovered Sherlock fully dressed curled up on his side on the couch sleeping peacefully. Rather than feeling relief that his friend was okay John had to suppress a flash of anger. He'd spent the past few hours being worried sick for no reason. Whatever flight of ideas had driven Sherlock to abandon John in the slums had simply lead him home and worse yet he couldn't even be bothered enough to answer his mobile. John crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Sherlock.

"You really piss me off sometimes, Sherlock, you know that right?" John snarled rhetorically. "I suppose I should be happy that at least one of us got some sleep last night. Do you have any idea how much paperwork is involved in discovering a dead body?"

Sherlock's only response was briefly fluttering one eye half way open. John made a noise of disgusted frustration and stormed off into the kitchen. John's throat felt like sandpaper after the night he'd had. All of the glasses were dirty. Being in no mood to clean one John just turned on the tap and drank from his cupped hand. He splashed some on his face to try to wake himself up.

With the sun fully on the rise John was thinking that he might as well just made some coffee and stay up. He went over to the fridge and opened it to see if any of the milk was still good. Looking into the messy fridge something felt out of place. With a knot slowly forming in John's stomach he furrowed his brow and tried to force his sleep deprived mind to tell him what was wrong. Staring into the fridge John gasped with sudden realization. The plastic bags with the disturbing rolls of inked human skin were missing.

"Sherlock...Sherlock?"

There was no answer from the living room despite John's raised voice. The knot in John's stomach tightened painfully. Closing the fridge door John went back out into the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved and now that John was paying closer attention he noticed how shallow his breathing was. John reached down and shook Sherlock's shoulder to wake him. Still unresponsive a thin line of white foam slipped from Sherlock's blue tinged lips.

"Oh God..."

Dropping to his knees John opened Sherlock's jaw and used his index and middle fingers to sweep the thick foam out of his airway. John had hoped that Sherlock would respond with a gag or cough response, but he was terrifyingly still. As he found a weak pulse with one hand John reached up and peeled back one of Sherlock's eyelids to reveal a bright blue orb with only a pin point of black pupil in the center. It didn't take John more than a second to diagnose Sherlock's condition as a heroine overdoes. A glance around confirmed his fear when he spotted a discarded needle along with the other drug paraphernalia on the floor.

"Don't you dare stop breathing." John growled at Sherlock.

Keeping one hand pressed against Sherlock's throat to monitor his sluggish pulse John reached into his pocket with the other to get his mobile to call for an ambulance. Finding his pocket empty he realized that it was still in his jacket pocket hanging in the front entrance way. Jumping to his feet John ran to the front door to retrieve his coat. As soon as John touched the jacket Sherlock made a wet sounding gasp. John looked over as Sherlock convulsed.

"Sherlock!"

Bringing the jacket with him John raced back over to the couch. There was nothing John could do about the terrifying muscle spasms. Even though he knew it wasn't going to help John put his hands on Sherlock's chest. When Sherlock continued to seize John carded his hand into his midnight hair. Sherlock opened his eyes briefly but they were rolled back so that only the white showed.

"Stop, stop this please..."

Seemingly in response to John's pleading request Sherlock began to calm. Despite the fact that it had felt like forever the seizure was over quickly. Unfortunately John could see that it was the beginning of an end that was also going to come quickly. Sherlock's weak pulse was now also dangerously erratic, his breathing was little more than spasmodic gasping. Up to this point John's medical training had helped keep him calm, but with Sherlock threatening to die in seconds John panicked.

"Help! Someone, please, help!"

John remembered his mobile in his jacket pocket on the floor and scrambled to retrieve it. Digging into his jacket John's fingers curled around something, but it wasn't his phone. John pulled out the Epi-pen that he kept on hand in case Sarah went into anaphylactic shock from her severe allergy to peanuts. Even though their break up had been weeks ago he'd never taken it out.

John hesitated to use the pen, epinephrin was not exactly the right tool for the job. Depending on how Sherlock's system reacted it could either raise his blood pressure and save him or cause it to plummet and send him into full cardiac arrest instantly. The decision was made for John when Sherlock's breath hissed against his teeth. John had heard that sound before, it was slow release of air caused by the patient's ribcage falling with its last breath.

"Damn you, Sherlock, not on my watch."

Twisting the Epi-pen dial to the maximum dose John slammed the pen tip into Sherlock's thigh. The spring loaded needle lashed out and went through fabric and skin to sink deep into the muscle. Sherlock's reaction was almost instantaneous. Snapping his eyes open Sherlock gasped like he'd just been rescued from drowning. Arching his back he tried to cry out but he hadn't caught his breath enough to make any sound.

Without thinking John reached out and pressed his palm against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to calm him and keep him from hurting himself. Disoriented with adrenaline coursing through his veins Sherlock took the medical touch as an aggressive attack. Everything happened so fast that John wasn't even sure how he managed to end up on his back pinned to the floor with his friend bearing down on him like an enraged lion.

"Sherlock! It's me, it's John!"

Sherlock's frightening expression turned to one of confusion for a second before he snapped out of his delirium. Coming down off the short lived adrenaline high Sherlock relaxed, further pinning John to the floor. John allowed Sherlock to rest his head against his chest for a moment, but it wasn't something he could allow for long.

"Sherlock? I can't...breath..." John panted truthfully.

Jolting awake again Sherlock was able to roll off John. Able to breath again John sat up and helped Sherlock do the same. Sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch the pair took a few minutes to recover from the near death experience. Sherlock looked John over and noticed that he looked ready to faint.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"Me? I'm not the one whose heart just stopped. I need to call an ambulance."

"No. John, I'm fine. Thank you."

"You might have pulmonary edema."

"I don't."

"Which one of us is the licensed medical doctor around here?" John demanded.

"If I let you have a listen, will you calm down?"

"Depends on what I hear."

Sherlock reached up and undid the top three buttons of his shirt. John sighed in defeat knowing that there was no way he was going to get Sherlock to agree to a proper physical at a hospital. Putting his ear against Sherlock's chest over his heart John instructed him to take a few deep breaths. John closed his eyes to help him concentrate on the sound. Sherlock's lungs sounded clear, but it was by no means a definitive test of health. With his ear still against Sherlock's exsposed chest Mrs. Hudson suddenly came through the door.

"I thought I heard a shou..." Mrs. Hudson stopped short as she spotted the pair on the floor. Blushing a bright pink she backed away. "Oh dear, I'm sorry, boys...um...I'll just go..."

"No, wait Mrs. Hudson...it's not..." John stammer as he pulled away from Sherlock and flushed a deeper shade than Mrs. Hudson had.

"It's none of my business." Mrs. Hudson interrupted as she hurried to retreat.

"Wait..."

"Just let her go." Sherlock said as he rebuttoned his shirt. "I'm fine."

"You are most certainly not 'fine'." John huffed. "You almost died, in fact you may have actually died. You need a hospital."

"No." Sherlock shock his head stubbornly as he attempted to get up on the couch. "I just need to keep awake."

John let Sherlock struggle for a few seconds before giving in and getting to his own feet so that he could help him. Sherlock accepted John's assistance and managed to get his feet under himself enough to get up on the couch. John sat down next to him and fought to stay awake as well.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"What else? They were waiting for me."

"The lawyer's thugs?"

"Word must have gotten around that we were looking for Ethan. They were in the street outside his apartment when I stepped out. I was able to convince them that I was alone and that I wasn't interested in putting up a fight so that they would leave with me before you had a chance to arrive."

"Why would you do that?"

"Who would help us if we both got caught? I knew you'd know something was wrong." Sherlock looked over at the window at the morning sun. "I did not expect it to take you so long."

"I got caught up with Lestrade." John explained feeling a bit sheepish.

"Did he treat the scene as a murder?"

"You already know he did."

"And yet our John Doe case was so easily cast aside as accidents. Which truly is the beauty of the crime. They really should have found someone with a little less talent though."

"What?"

"I don't think I would have taken the tattoo lead so seriously if the art work hadn't been so spectacular. There was no need to put such elaborate tattoos on the corpse to render them difficult to identify, a tribal arm band or a simple design on the chest would have been enough to throw anyone off the scent of their true identity. So why the breathtaking works? Pride? Or maybe a call for help? Yes, a cry for help makes more sense. I bet that Eth..."

"Sherlock, focus." John said as he snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's face. "You're rambling. What are you talking about?"

"The tattoos on the John Does were real, but they were inked after death. I didn't think that the tattoos could be fresh because of the way the body reacts to being tattooed, a fresh tattoo is swollen and red around the edges. However if you were tattooing a dead body there would be no living reaction to the needle. It would look healed."

"How did you figure that from Ethan's fridge? That's when you figured all this out, right?"

"I saw some of his work in there."

"There were body parts in his fridge?" John asked in horror.

"In a manner of speaking. At first I thought it was human, but now I suspect that it was pig skin. It had started to rot, but the tattoo practice was still evident. That must have been the sound I was hearing at the opium den, it was a tattoo gun. Ethan was hiding out on the floor above. It may have just started as doing art work in exchange for heroine, but it has turned into something much darker. The first John Doe was a test, the second one was someone they actually wanted rid of."

"I'm not sure if you're talking sense or not, but I can rarely tell the difference so I don't know if I need to be alarmed or not."

"John, don't you see?" Sherlock asked with excitement. "I thought that the second John Doe had been with St. Claire, but the truth is far more simple: he *is* St. Claire."

"What? Why would the lawyer want St. Claire dead?"

"I haven't figured that part out yet." Sherlock admitted. "But I will."

Sherlock fell into the deep silence that often came over him when he went into thought. Feeling increasingly dizzy from the lack of sleep and the decrease of adrenaline in his own system John just stared off into space for a second. John suddenly smiled and then chuckled. Sherlock looked at him in concern.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing." John tried to straighten his face. "It's just...I'm always yelling at you for talking to me without even noticing that I'm not around. Yet I was talking to you without even noticing that you were practically dead."

"And you call yourself a doctor." Sherlock teased with a smile.

"I know, right?"

John and Sherlock looked at one another for a second before breaking down into shared laughter. Pulling himself back together John rubbed his eyes.

"God I'm tired." John admitted wearily.

"If I have Mrs. Hudson come up and keep an eye on me will you get some sleep?"

"Yeah." John nodded as he yawned. "I just have one last question: why didn't they just kill you."

"They tried. If it wasn't for you they would have."

"Yeah, but it took me hours to get here. They barely overdosed you or you would have been long dead before I got home. Why not just do it right?"

"They wanted to make it look like an accident, I'm sure they would have leaked the pictures of me at the den to the press. Maybe they already have. Part of what makes heroine such a dangerous drug is that it's difficult to dose. There are a lot of factors that go into figuring out the line between just enough and too much."

"Don't tell me...they grossly underestimated your previous experience with opioids."

"I'm also heavier than I look."


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Fifteen, Withdrawal

"Are you sure you don't want to go to hospital?"

"Go away!"

John crossed his arms over his chest as he stood outside the closed bathroom door. On the other side Sherlock wretched noisily again. It had only been a day since the near fatal overdose, but Sherlock was already suffering from withdrawal. Ten minutes later Sherlock came out with his face buried in a towel. John wasn't quite quick enough to move out of the way and Sherlock bumped into him.

"Why are you standing there?" Sherlock demanded in an annoyed tone as he tossed the towel back into the bathroom where it landed on the floor.

"I'm worried about you."

"Well, don't." Sherlock said dismissively.

It had been difficult enough to convince Sherlock to rest the day of the attack, now that a new day had started he was determined to start back on the trail again. Going over to the front door Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and started putting them on. Sweat was beading against Sherlock's skin despite the fact that he had just dried off. Before he could leave John stepped over and put his hand on the front door. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, I'm fine, I swear." Sherlock moaned in exasperation.

"Where are you going?" John demanded.

"I want to see if I'm still on the 'no buy' list."

"What?"

"The lawyer told me that his client controls all of the heroine in the city, if I try to purchase some it might draw this client of his out."

"Why would you buying smack draw him out?"

"They were fairly bold when they knew I was faking an addiction, imagine how brazen they will be if they feel they truly have a way to control me." Sherlock replied with a bright smile. "It's perfect!"

"It's insane." John corrected. "They tried to kill you."

"Maybe not, like you said if they truly wanted me dead they certainly could have made that happen. Perhaps they were just trying to make an addict of me."

"And have they?"

"Have they what?" Sherlock asked with seemingly genuine confusion.

"Have they made an addict out of you?" John asked seriously.

"Of course not." Sherlock laughed. "What would put such a thing in your head?"

"Having a medical degree helps, knowing you helps even more. You're obsessive, Sherlock, you have a classic addictive personality. You can't even stop smoking. I can't let you go out looking for drugs. This case isn't that important."

"Every case is important, particularly the unsolved ones."

"You've already solved it. Once they had a name they were able to run John Doe's dental records against St. Claire's and it's him."

"But we don't know who killed him, or why. There is also the first John Doe that remains unidentified."

"You keep pressing and these people are going to kill you."

"Lots of people try to kill me, I suspect you've thought about it yourself from time to time. Fearing criminals is no reason to stop trying to catch them."

"Sherlock, you're shivering from withdrawal." John pointed out.

As if this was new information to him Sherlock furrowed his brow and held up his hand to inspect it. Sherlock studied his shaky hand for a moment. John could see his friend trying and failing to mentally command his hand to be still. Eventually Sherlock shrugged and put his hand back down.

"I'm fine."

"You may have it under control right now, but in another twelve hours if you have access to it you are going to relapse."

"Don't be absurd. It was just one jab."

"All it takes is one."

"No one is going to sell to me anyway."

Before John could protest further Sherlock's mobile started ringing. Sherlock answered the phone and listened to what the caller had to say. As he listened he lifted one eyebrow showing that whatever the caller had to say it had caught his attention. When the caller continued to talk Sherlock tilted his head back in bored disgust as he pantomimed someone gabbing on. Losing interest Sherlock simply hung up without saying anything to the caller beyond his initial greeting.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"Lestrade. They've found another tattooed body."

Sherlock was out the door in a flash. John grabbed his own coat and hurried to catch up. When they arrived at the morgue Molly simply pointed them in the right direction. Over on one of the metal tables lay the body with a white sheet pulled over it. Sherlock pulled the sheet down. A lean man in his late twenties was laid out on the cold metal. Like the others his body was covered in tattoos with his facial features marred by rat predation.

"Damn it!" Sherlock suddenly roared.

John was startled by Sherlock's outburst. Pacing back and forth Sherlock started muttering to himself as he rubbed compulsively at his forearms. Glancing at the corpse once more Sherlock put his hands on his hips and made a noise of pure disgust. John had seen these odd little tantrums before, they occurred when Sherlock came across a dead end.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively. "Do you know him?"

"It's Ethan Kellis." Sherlock hissed.

"You think this is the tattoo artist?"

"I know it is." Sherlock growled in irritation. "He was the one person that would have been willing to talk."

"How can you know it's him? We don't even know what he looks like."

"The tattoos across his chest, stomach, and left arm are all in his style. However a different artist inked his right arm. The style is close, but not quite as skilled." Sherlock pointed out as he gestured to the ink. "It is very common for tattooists to practice their skills on their own bodies. However, Ethan was right handed so he couldn't very well tattoo his own right arm. Not wanting to have any blank canvas he allow what was probably his apprentice do the right arm."

Sherlock turned Ethan's left arm palm side up so that he could look at the underside of his forearm. John stepped in closer and looked at the needle tracks that ran along the veins. Unlike the other victims this man was clearly a long term users.

John was still looking at the dead man's track marks when Sherlock invaded John's pocket and stole his wallet.

"Hey!" John protested as he reached out to get his wallet back.

"Is this all you have in notes?" Sherlock asked in disappointment as he held John's wallet out of reach and removed the cash.

"We haven't exactly had any paying clients lately." John said defensively as he managed to snatch back the wallet, but not the pound notes.

"It will have to do."

Sherlock pocketed the money and headed towards the doors.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?"

"To find a dealer, of course."

"Sherlock, no. No." John said firmly as he caught up with Sherlock. "As your friend and as your doctor I forbid it."

"Good luck with that..."


	16. Chapter 16

NOTE: Sorry it has taken so long for me to update, I've been dealing with some health issues. I will strive to do better!

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter sixteen, Abstract Cash

"That was too easy." Sherlock sighed. "I guess I'm off the 'no sell' list."

"Give me that." John snatched the tiny ziplock of white powder away from Sherlock.

"Don't throw that away, I want to test it."

"Not happening."

"In the lab, John, not on myself."

John eyed Sherlock suspiciously. Sherlock stared back at him calmly even though his hair was wet from sweating and his breathing was increasingly laboured as the withdrawal continued to strain his body. Not about to hand the small packet of heroin back over John put it in his pocket.

"Come on, let's go."

"Go where?" John asked.

"Back to St. Claire's."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Could it be 'because' you missed something the first time round by not treating it like a proper crime?" John asked with a smile.

"No." Sherlock growled. "I still mantain that it is not the scene of the crime. He left on his own. However at the time I didn't care where he went after that and now I do."

"Hey, there's no shame in being wrong." John continued to mock.

"I should hope not, a majority of the population would have died of shame by now if that were the case." Sherlock chuckled.

John smiled again, it was always fun to see how ruffled Sherlock's feathers got when he missed something. Walking out of the run down warehouse district where they'd found a large selection of dealers they caught a cab to take them back to the Isle of Dogs. When they got to the private elevator that went up to the penthouse flat Sherlock easily typed in the seven digit code that operated it.

"Did you memorize that because you thought we'd be back or just out of habit?"

"Habit."

John accepted this answer. As the elevator took them up to the top floor Sherlock leaned against the green marble that lined the interior and closed his eyes for a moment. John watched in concern as his friend fought against the withdrawal. Sherlock's only outward sign of pain was a brief furrowing of his brow. The instant the elevator reached its destination Sherlock snapped open his eyes, pushed himself away from the elevator wall, and walked confidently into the flat as though nothing was wrong.

The brush with weakness lasted less than a minute but it concerned John. If it was one thing John had learned over the past year it was that Sherlock was without doubt the most stubborn creature on Earth. There wasn't a mule alive that couldn't take a lesson or two from him. Knowing this John knew that for Sherlock to show any signs of distress he must be in a state that would land an average person in the hospital.

Sherlock was currently stalking around the large luxury flat like a hound looking for a scent. The apartment had been processed by Lestrade's men, but everything was still in place. This time around Sherlock was paying much closer attention to the details of the flat. Deciding to stay out of the way John went over to a large abstract painting on the wall and tried to figure out what made the random splatters of colour be classified as 'art'.

John was wondering how much St. Claire had paid for the painting that looked like a four year old had attacked it with a paint kit when Sherlock stepped up next to him. Sherlock studied the painting for a moment.

"It's upside down." Sherlock noted.

"How can you tell?"

"The artist's signature," Sherlock pointed out the small upside down signature in the upper left hand corner "this is an original Ranko, worth about 500,000$."

"You're kidding?"

"St. Clare had a taste for expensive art, but no true appreciation of it." Sherlock noted as he looked closer at the painting. "All of the art in this flat is abstract high value pieces, but none of it is displayed proudly."

"Isn't that a little odd?"

"Very." Sherlock mused.

Sherlock wandered off in a new hunt. This time he started running his hand over the walls. He stopped when he came to a small silver nail in the wall. Sherlock inspected the nail for a second before continuing through the flat looking for more. John stepped up to the first nail and looked at it. The nail was so small that it was easily missed if you weren't looking for it.

"Five missing paintings." Sherlock announced as he came back into the front room. "All of them smaller in size. That makes perfect sense."

"It does?"

"Paintings are better than cash in a lot of ways. Cash takes up a lot of space. A painting is lightweight and easy to hide. He could have had several million worth of paintings with him and they wouldn't have taken up any more space in a suitcase than a few sheets of paper once out of their frames."

"Wouldn't the frames still be here then?"

"He knew he wasn't safe so he threw as many of the smaller paintings into his case as woud fit before bolting, he would have taken them out of their frames once he was somewhere he felt safe."

"So...St. Claire bought expensive art in case he ever needed some 'easy carry cash'? That doesn't make much sense."

"St. Claire didn't buy any of these paintings. They were payment for something."

"For what?"

"Probably something he didn't want to do anymore."


	17. Chapter 17

NOTE: Sorry it took so long to update, my life gets very hectic this time of year. I'll do better, I promise!

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Seventeen, Hollywood

John marveled at the scenery as he walked down a deserted street in the slums of Bangkok. Small shops spilled their trinkets and treasures out onto the dirty narrow sidewalks on rickety tables, but none of the stores had merchants to go along with them. Everywhere were signs of a busy population with the exception of the actual population itself. The only noises came from the clicking of the blinking faulty neon signs that flickered in grotesque colors. He walked past a food cart that was proudly displaying whole raw fish that didn't have any smell in ice that never melted.

"This is amazing." John commented as he touched the wax fish. "It all looks so real."

As if noticing the surroundings for the first time Sherlock glanced around at the complex movie set they were walking through. John could tell that Sherlock wasn't nearly as impressed with the fake version of the Thai city street.

"It would take me less time to list the things they got right than all that is wrong with this."

"How about you keep both of those lists to yourself?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock just made a huffing sound before reaching up and rubbing at his upper arm compulsively as he continued down the street set. John kept a keep medical eye on his friend as an expression of pain flitted across Sherlock's face. Muscle and bone pain was common with heroin withdrawal, but John knew it was pointless to ask Sherlock if he was alright. Despite the chill in the airconditioned studio Sherlock's hair was damp with sweat. Sherlock glanced over at John and knit his brow together.

"Stop looking at me like that." Sherlock demanded.

"Like what?"

"Like you think I'm going to pass out at any moment."

"Are you feeling dizzy?"

"No." Sherlock said firmly. "Although I am finding the sweating a nuisance."

"That should stop in a day or two."

"Good. It has already ruined two of my best shirts." Sherlock remarked sourly as he suddenly turned and pushed open a section of wall that swung open freely.

John didn't bother to ask Sherlock how he knew where the door to the back of the set was. Stepping to the far side of the facade was disorienting. The store fronts weren't much more than a single sheet of wood thick in most places. A few had been built to have actual rooms, but from here they were little more than bare plywood boxes. All the details were on the other side.

"What are you two doing here?" A tired American voice demanded.

John turned and saw a man in his early thirties who looked like he hadn't slept in days approaching them. He had a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand that he knocked back as he made his way over them. Wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt he certainly didn't look like he was in charge. However Sherlock took a step forward and offered his hand for the man to shake.

"Director Yearling." Sherlock greeted with more respect than he usually gave people.

"You must be the lawyer." Yearling sighed.

"I suppose you've had a lot of trouble with lawyers since St. Claire's death." Sherlock said sympathetically.

"They've been circling me like sharks...no offense."

"None taken."

"This movie has been a curse right from the beginning. I guess looking back I shouldn't be surprised that it ended up being the death of one of us."

"How much do you know about the circumstances around St. Claire's disappearance and death?"

"None really, your Scotland Yard hasn't been very forth coming."

"Did St. Claire have any problems that you knew of?"

"None, other than being an arogant prick. But honestly his death came as a complete shock." Yearling confessed. "I thought Neville had just run off to sulk, in traditional actor fashion."

"Why did you think he was 'sulking'?" Sherlock asked pretending to be only casually interested.

John was always amazed by how well Sherlock could so easily fake any role that he decided to slip into. He had never openly lied to the director, but he wasn't doing anything to correct the misunderstanding. Clearly grateful for an ear to listen to his woes the young director chattered on.

"I had just informed him that we weren't going to be able to film on location in Thailand due to budget constraints. He was almost frantic about the change, insisting that we had to go. But we had lost our biggest backer and just couldn't swing it. He even offered to help pay for it. However when I told him how many millions it was going to take he just turned and left. I figured he'd be back."

"Do you think he could have afforded to pay for filming in Bangkok?"

"Hell no, since he had no family his estate was left to the studio, which unfortunatly I now own. He didn't even own the flat, he still owed over a hundred thousand pounds on it. I'm selling it jus to keep out of forclosure and to try and pay for the debt this disaster of a movie has sunk us into. In fact, I have all the papers in my office." Yearling gestured towards a hastily constructed room at the far side of the studio. "Come on in."

"Oh, I'm not a lawyer." Sherlock suddenly confessed.

"What?" Yearling asked in shock. "You're not a tabloid writer are you?"

"He is Sherlock Holmes," a familiar voice entered the scene "the world's only consulting inspector. Worth every penny, he's very good."

"Consulting detective." Sherlock corrected. "And you never paid me, you simply threatened to grievously injure my friend if I failed to solve your case."

"A harmless prank." The lawyer smiled.

John automatically took a step back from the lawyer who had first come to Sherlock with the tattoed John Doe case. He had his ever present body guards with him, one of which still had a deep purple butterfly bruise across his face from where Sherlock had broken his nose.

"Harmless?" Sherlock repeated calmly. "The tattoo artist died because I successfully saw past his efforts to hide St. Claire's body in plain sight. Very clever, it almost worked. It was a good idea of you to test it out on that first nobody first."

"What's going on here?" Yearling demanded.

"Nothing to worry about Director." The lawyer assured. "I heard that you have the papers ready to sign?"

"Buying St. Claire's flat are you?" Sherlock asked knowingly.

"I am." The lawyer answered.

"I suppose you're buying it 'as is', furniture and all."

"Just trying to make the transaction easy for everyone."

"Have you told the Director about the millions worth of art up on the walls?"

"Art?" Yearling asked.

"Mr. Holmes is just trying to confuse the issues, he has no proof of anything." The lawyer said confidently. "Director, I believe you have some bills to pay, I'm simply here to help you pay them. The flat is costing you thousands everyday you keep possession of it."

"Don't sell that flat, Director." Sherlock advised.

"My client's offer is more than fair. Don't let St. Claire's debut ruin your career, Director."

John held his breath as he waited for Yearling's response. He looked conflicted for a moment, but eventually he sighed. He looked a decade older than his young age from the stress of all that had happened.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Yearling said before turning to the lawyer. "Come on in to my office, I'd like to get this over with."

"Who is the client buying the flat?" Sherlock asked.

"That's none of your concern." The lawyer answered for Yearling. "I believe the Director asked you to leave, you're now trespassing. I could help him sue you."

Sherlock readied to defend himself when the lawyer's goons stepped forward menacingly. Having his nose broken didn't seem to make the lead bodyguard fear Sherlock in anyway. Before a fight could break out Sherlock put his hands up peacefully to let them know he would leave on his own. Yearling was already retreating to his office, he clearly didn't want to get into any of this he just wanted the flat off his plate. The lawyer stepped up to Sherlock and smiled in triumph.

"Would you like my advice?" The lawyer asked.

"Is it free or do I have to pay you by the half hour?"

"It's free. Go home, take pride in the fact that you got close."

"What if that's not good enough for me?"

"No one catches the Dragon, Mr. Holmes, not even you."

"We'll see about that."


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter eighteen, Payment

"John..."

"No, absolutely not."

"You're being unreasonable!" Sherlock growled in irritation.

"Maybe, but that doesn't change my answer."

Sherlock glared at John for a long moment before flopping down onto the love seat and crossing his arms over his chest. Pouting like a petulant child Sherlock quickly started rubbing at his forearms again. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since his heroin overdose and the withdrawal had now truly set in. Sweat dripped from his curled hair as random muscle spasms made his usual jerking movements even more erratic.

Unable to get comfortable Sherlock jumped back up to his feet and started pacing around the flat. Itching behind his ear like a dog with fleas he snarled and muttered curses. Picking up his violin for a moment Sherlock screeched the bow over the strings in a few violent cords before putting it back down again to continue pacing.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm fine!"

"You can't even hold still." John pointed out. "We really should take you to a clinic."

"I am not going to some filthy clinic to beg for drugs." Sherlock said firmly.

"Medicine, not drugs."

"Same difference." Sherlock snapped angrily.

"Then you are just going to have to wait this out because I'm not letting you out onto the streets in this state and I'm certainly not handing over the stuff you bought yesterday."

"I just want to test it. Perfectly innocent, I swear." Sherlock said sweetly.

"You don't need the temptation right now."

"It may tell us who this lawyer's 'client' is."

"How?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock growled in frustration as he lost his temper once more. Agitated he snatched up the violin again. "At least it would give me something to do."

John winced as Sherlock began torturing the instrument once again. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was misplaying the violin because he was currently unable to play it properly or to annoy John into giving him the pouch of heroin. A muscle spasm suddenly caused Sherlock to dig the bow too hard into the strings resulting in the horse hair bow fraying violently.

Staring at the broken bow Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the useless bow across the room. Sitting on the couch John ducked as the bow nearly hit him. Sherlock didn't seem particularly apologetic. He put the violin down carefully and sank cross legged to the cluttered floor. Panting against the deep opium pains Sherlock bowed his head and pulled at his soaked hair with a deep growl. John hated seeing his friend in distress, but at the same time Sherlock refused any help or advice on the subject.

"At least tell me what you've done with my patches." Sherlock begged.

"You're wearing four of them already, which is enough nicotine to bring down a horse. I'm not letting you have any more."

"You're worse than my brother."

After glaring spitefully at John Sherlock reached for a near by newspaper and started shredding it. John just passively watched the destructive behaviour. Sherlock had been coping with the withdrawal well until a few hours after meeting the lawyer at the studio. John wasn't sure which part of his current state was true chemical withdrawal and what behaviour was just a product of Sherlock being at a dead end as far as the case was concerned.

So far Sherlock had deducted that St. Claire was so desperate to go to Bangkok because he had already been paid handsomely in the form of the paintings for the service of using studio equipment to bring a large quantity heroin back from the Golden Triangle. Second only to Afghanistan the sovereign state of Myanmar was a major illicit opium producer. Sherlock pointed out that much of that product ended up in Thailand for further distribution. After the trip to Bangkok was canceled either the lawyer's client wasn't interested in a refund or St. Claire thought he could escape with a few million in art. Either way it had ended badly for St. Claire. Sherlock also decided that the tattooing was the drug cartel trying out a new method of body disposal.

The case was all but solved with the major exception of not knowing exactly who was behind everything. They had already tried hunting down the lawyer long ago, but in a city full of litigators and lawyers it was a far easier thing said than done.

John was more than happy to leave the case as it was. The last thing he wanted to tangle with was a homicidal and highly connected drug lord. Still turning the morning news into tiny pieces Sherlock clearly didn't feel the same. Even in the continued throws of withdrawal he was going out of his mind not having a solid lead to the culprit.

"Wait a minute..." Sherlock paused and looked up at John "you're a doctor."

"Yes, thank you for noticing."

"Can't you go to a chemist?"

"No. Go to a clinic."

"Please." Sherlock forced a semi charming smile.

"I am not going to a chemist and getting you methadone. That's a 'Class A' restricted drug, I'd be under investigation so fast that I probably wouldn't even make it back to the flat with it."

Sherlock took a breath to protest but John's hard expression told him that this was not a point that John was willing to argue. Groaning in defeat Sherlock tossed the newly made newspaper confetti. Still sitting on the floor Sherlock tipped back and laid on the floor, the scraps of paper landed on him like dirty snow. He closed his eyes and seemed peaceful for a moment.

The serenity didn't last long and Sherlock's breathing became shallow and laboured. Opening his eyes he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Closing them tightly again he turned his head to the side with a pathetic whimper. Seeing how truly miserable Sherlock was John started to think about calling Sara and asking for the favour of a small methadone prescription. Since she was still part of a surgery it wouldn't be as suspicious.

Before John could reach for his mobile something on the floor caught Sherlock's attention. Scrambling to his hands and knees Sherlock raked a pile of discarded letters towards himself. Over the past few weeks they had piled up and then spilled off the end table and onto the floor. Sherlock started shuffling through the letters, bills, and junk post. John noticed that with something to do his symptoms seemed to ease.

"Worth every penny..." Sherlock repeated the lawyer's words about him under his breath as he held up one of the letters.

"What?"

Sherlock didn't respond he just tore open the letter in his hand. Pulling out a neatly folded sheet of paper he inspected it. John couldn't see much from his place on the couch, but whatever the letter was it had Sherlock's full attention. John waited for Sherlock to share what he was reading, but Sherlock seemed to have forgotten that he was even in the room.

"What is it?" John finally asked.

"It's a payment cheque from the lawyer, Brent Anthony, for 4357.63£. It is dated the day after he contacted me about the first John Doe."

"4357.63£?" John repeated. "Why such an odd amount?"

"I don't know..."

John fell silent as Sherlock laid back down on the floor where his focus drifted into space. Having memorized the details on the cheque he let it slip from his fingers to fall onto his chest. It was fascinating to watch him working on a problem in his mind. Although he'd turned his attention inward on his own thoughts Sherlock's hands moved through the air with a mind of their own. Laying on his back he reached up and randomly tapped on invisible symbols and numbers. Conducting a bizarre orchestra Sherlock tried to find rhyme and reason in the seemingly random numbers.

Working on a chalkboard that only he could see Sherlock reorganized the numbers to try and form a pattern, he added them together, subtracted them, and placed them through a various equations. Each time he came to a dead end he shook his head and started again.

Five minutes went by before Sherlock jolted and sat bolt upright. John often got the feeling that Sherlock was just as surprised as anyone when he finally solved a puzzle. Sherlock reached out with one hand and tapped the air in front of himself with his index finger as though dialing a phone. He tilted his head to the side and studied the imaginary results.

"g-h-i, d-e-f, j-k-l, p-q-r-s, m-n-o, d-e-f..." Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"Those are the letters on a mobile keypad that correspond to the numbers on the cheque." Sherlock clarified as he continued to scramble the letters together. "Each number should correspond to one of the three to four letters, like a text message. The change after the period may or may not be a separate word."

John snatched a near by pencil and scrap of paper and wrote out the sequence of numbers. Going through the sets of letters he tried to build simple words. Sherlock was doing the same in his head. It didn't take long to find the only sensible combination.

"Got it." Sherlock and John chimed in unison.

Sherlock looked over at John with a raised eyebrow. John held up the piece of paper he'd worked on. He had several letter combination that didn't make any sense crossed out with his last attempt circled. Sherlock read the note and nodded in agreement.

"'Help me.'" John read out loud.

"Makes more sense than 'Gel rod'."

"He wasn't testing you," John pieced together "he was trying to get your help without making it look like it by putting you on the case."

"His bodyguards must actually be babysitters."

"Now what?"

"Since I have ever intention of cashing this we'd better go earn our four thousand three hundred fifty seven pounds and sixty-three pence..."


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter nineteen, Cross Fire

The alarm that John had set buzzed at him noisily. It had been a long time since he had bothered to set an alarm and the harsh noise startled him awake. Scrambling out of bed he ended up in a tangle of sheets on the floor. Cross with himself John turned his aggression on the alarm clock and knocked it off the bed stand with a stray pillow. Muffled by the pillow the alarm continued to beep on the floor. Getting up John walked over and yanked the plug from the wall.

John had wanted to make sure he was awake well before the lawyer's office was open so that Sherlock wouldn't have a chance to run off without him. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that the early morning hour was actually here John was having second thoughts. John had never been much of a morning person and today was no exception.

Sherlock would have headed out for the lawyer's office yesterday, but his withdrawal had turned to a violent nausea. John had spent most of the night making sure Sherlock didn't aspirate or otherwise injure himself with the retching. It had only been a few hours ago that either of them got to sleep.

John was just about to crawl back into bed and go back to sleep, thinking that Sherlock couldn't be any more willing to get out of bed, when he heard someone crashing about down stairs. Moaning pitifully John abandoned the thought of getting some decent rest.

After getting dressed John went down to the main living room only to find a stranger going through one of the bookshelves. He was Sherlock's height, but not nearly as lanky. His thick brown hair was well matched with his mustache. The intruder was muttering under his breath as he went through the unorganized book titles. John cleared his throat to announce his presents. The man turned around and gazed at him calmly with deep hazel eyes.

"Good morning." The man greeted in a thick Welsh accent.

"Can I help you?" John asked in a hostile tone.

"You've been a remarkable help so far, I don't see why you should cease to be useful now."

"Who let you in here?" John demanded.

"I let myself in."

"Please leave."

"Do you have any idea who I am?"

"I don't really care." John huffed. "Get out."

"I'll do no such thing."

"I'm going to call the cops." John warned.

"That would be awkward."

John paused as the man had suddenly dropped his accent. Furrowing his brow John stepped up to the man and looked at him more carefully. The man stared right back at John for a moment before relaxing the muscles in his face. The way he'd been crinkling his eyes and lip line had significantly changed their features. Along with the dark contacts and the wig the look was extremely effective.

"Sherlock?" John asked still slightly unsure.

"Good to see the disguise works even on you." Sherlock chuckled. "I haven't needed to use a disguise in a long while, I'd almost forgotten how fun it can be."

"It's remarkable, but why?"

"The lawyer went to great lengths to be covert about his need for help. I can't just waltz into his office and ask him how I can be of service."

"I suppose not."

"I found a good spot for you to watch from, I'll leave my mobile on in my pocket so you can hear. Make sure to bring your gun."

"You think there is going to be trouble?"

"Three men are dead so far."

Nodding John went over to the book shelf that Sherlock had been sifting through. Easily identifying the false books that covered the small gun safe John brought out the weapon. Sherlock gave John the address of a downtown office that had space to rent. Sherlock had already rented one of the offices for the month so that John would have a good perch to watch the meeting from.

John left before Sherlock to get settled in the office window. He was up on the third floor whereas the lawyer's office was on the second floor across the narrow street. John wasn't sure if Sherlock didn't know that the downward angle made for a more difficult precision shot or if he just had that much faith in his marksmen ship. Either way it was going to be difficult to help Sherlock if the lawyer's goons decided to attack.

Settling down in front of the window with a set of binoculars John peeked through the large glass panes into the lawyer's office. To John's surprise the bodyguards were not in the room. It didn't mean that they weren't close by, but at least they weren't standing over him. Getting his weapon out John waited for Sherlock to arrive.

Anthony was working at his desk, but kept looking around nervously. John had to duck down more than once when the lawyer scanned the building with anxious eyes. Anthony was not the confident bully that he had been when his guards were around. He had always looked a little lizard like to John and as the lawyer licked his lips he seemed even more reptilian.

When Sherlock arrived John was still impressed by how unlike himself he looked. Even his gait was different as he stepped into the office. If Anthony suspected that the man in his office was Sherlock he certainly didn't show it. Politely getting to his feet Anthony leaned over his mahogany desk and offered his guest his hand. Sherlock uncharacteristically accepted the offer. Through the open cell phone in Sherlock's pocket John could listen in on the conversation.

"Welcome, Mr. Johansen. Please, have a seat."

"Thank, Mr. Anthony." Sherlock replied in the deep accent.

"Please, call me Brent."

"And do call me Steven."

"How can I help you, Steven?" Anthony asked.

"I have a...friend, he is being blackmailed."

"Blackmailed?" Anthony repeated in shock. "Surely that is a matter for the police."

"He is too afraid to go to the police." Sherlock responded. "He attempted to go to a local consulting detective, but unfortunately it took the detective until just last night for him to get the message."

Anthony paused just as John had done and looked closer at his new client. Sherlock had his back turned to John, but he assumed that Sherlock had done the same trick of relaxing into his own features because the lawyer's eyes suddenly widened in shock. Collecting himself again the lawyer leaned back.

"Your friend is in a difficult situation." Anthony continued. "Often times with these high powered blackmailers they have control over every aspect of their victims life."

"Do you think he's being monitored at home as well as work?" Sherlock asked.

"It can be hard to tell, but it is always safest to assume that your every move is watched." The lawyer replied, playing along.

"I see." Sherlock nodded. "Couldn't he leave the country?"

"No. These men are most likely globally connected."

"It would seem that the only way to be safe would be to take down the organization's leader."

"It is very unlikely that your friend knows who that is. He would never have been contacted by a leader himself, he would be dealing with middle men."

"He must have some idea."

"Perhaps he got a pay off from a foreign bank." Anthony mused.

"Would it be safe to cash such a cheque?"

"No, it would raise eyebrows in Scotland Yard to cash a large quantity of foreign currency. It is one of the reasons the organizations will do it, once their victims are no longer useful they are sent the tempting money offer and when they cash it they are investigated and most likely arrested when they can't give a legitimate answer as to why they have the money."

"Only a fool would fall for such a trick."

"People are often fools when presented with amount of money. However, I'm sure your friend wouldn't be so foolish."

"No, I suppose he wouldn't be."

"So that leaves us at a bit of a dead end." Anthony said with a shrug. "Perhaps if the detective your friend tried to hire had been better at his job we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I'm sure there were complication that kept him from his task."

"I'm sure your friend assumed he was the 'best'." The lawyer snarled angrily.

"Antho..."

"Perhaps if you had just finished the original job I paid to d..."

John jerked violently when a spiderweb exploded into the pane of glass that made up the large window of the lawyer's office. Anthony had simultaneously cried out and arched back as a bullet tore through his heart. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the exposed window as another silent bullet slammed through the glass. Sherlock spun sharply like he'd been hit and fell out of the chair and to the floor.

"Sherlock!"

Jumping up John ran down the three flight to stairs and rushed across the street. The heavy wood doors normally used for client privacy had kept the lawyer's secretary from realizing anything was wrong. She protested when John burst into the waiting room and rushed to the office door. He ordered her to call an ambulance and raced into the lawyer's office. A quick glance at Anthony was all it took to see that he was dead. There was one entry wound directly over his heart and another just to the side.

"Sherlock?"

"Over here." Sherlock grumbled.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor with his palm pressed to his right temple. John hurried over and dropped to his knees in front of his friend. John pulled Sherlock's hand away to see how bad the damage was. John sat back with a sigh of relief when he saw that it was only a grazing wound, it was barely even bleeding. Sherlock looked up at John with mismatched eyes as the force of the hit had dislodged one of his dark contacts.

"That was a close one." Sherlock said ruefully as he gingerly touched the wound.

"It's a good thing that second shot wasn't meant for you."

"Actually I think it was."

"What?"

"Call it friendly warning shot." Sherlock replied as he got to his feet.

"Why not just kill you?"

"That's the second time you've had to ask that of late." Sherlock mused. "If I had to guess I would say it's because of Moriarty."

"Moriarty? What does he have to do with all this?"

"Nothing really, drug smuggling is much too dull for him. But I suspect I'm still under his 'protection'."

"Right of course, he wants to kill you himself."

"Something like that." Sherlock said as he started to rummage through the lawyer's desk drawers.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for this." Sherlock answered as he held up a cheque briefly before tucking it in his coat pocket. "This has been most illuminating, but we should go before Lestrade and his men show up."

"Illuminating? We didn't learn anything and now the lawyer is dead."

"We learned a great deal. Most importantly we learned that this group does not needlessly kill."

"Tell the lawyer that."

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock asked in frustration.

"No."

"They could have killed him at any time after St. Claire's death, but they didn't. Is wasn't until he slipped up and revealed that I was in his office that the men watching him fired."

"A lawyer in your pocket is a valuable asset, perhaps that's why they kept him."

"Perhaps..." Sherlock replied vacantly as he became lost in thought. "I'm missing something, which is very unlike me."

John watched as Sherlock retreated into his own memories looking for the missing puzzle piece. The glassy look in his blue and brown eyes was all too familiar. At times John wondered if Sherlock was even aware of his surroundings when he was like this. Off in the distance the sound of the police sirens wailing through the streets could be heard. Snapping out of his daydreaming Sherlock looked around as if lost.

"Come on." Sherlock said abruptly with sudden purpose. "Let's go."

"Go where?"

"To finish the job we were paid to do: identify the first John Doe."

"You think he's important?"

"I think he's the whole key to this."


	20. Chapter 20

**Fun fact**: Sir Author Conan Doyle's version of Sherlock (by that I mean the original stories) never said "Elementary, my dear Watson". He said "my dear Watson" all the time, and said "Elementary" a few times...but never together. The two phrases were placed together for the first time in the 1929 film.

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Twenty: Elementary

"I thought you said were done with those."

Sherlock didn't grace John's accusation with a response. John never believed that Sherlock had quit, but he still felt the need to give his friend a hard time about it. Sitting or rather lounging on the love seat Sherlock let smoke pour lazily from his nostrils. The effect made Sherlock look for all the world like a dragon masquerading as a human. Taking another long drag on the cigarette Sherlock closed his still mismatched eyes and enjoyed the nicotine's calming effect.

After coming home from the shooting at the lawyer's office Sherlock had studied every detail of the cheque he'd stolen. When the cheque didn't reveal any further leads Sherlock had quickly become frustrated and from there restless. John had not had the same problem, coming down off the adrenaline after the early morning start he'd gone back to bed. Coming down stairs he'd found Sherlock smoking.

Finishing the last of the one cigaret he'd allowed himself Sherlock picked the cheque up from his lap. Looking over it again he cursed under his breath in frustration. John could understand why Sherlock couldn't let the case drop, it simply wasn't in his nature. However he wished that for just once Sherlock could be a little less Sherlock this one time. John stepped closer and Sherlock held the cheque out for him to take. John read the info on the hefty cheque.

"Cute." John remarked.

"Cute?" Sherlock repeated as if he'd just bitten down on something sour. "What's 'cute' about it?"

"The payor: Felix Hoffmann."

"I don't understand. Do you know him?"

"He invented heroin."

"Really?" Sherlock sat up with sudden interest. "Tell me more."

"It's a well known story of medicine gone wrong. Felix was a German chemist working for Bayer..."

"The aspirin company?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes. Anyway, he was working on trying to find a solution to the world's morphine addiction. He created two drugs: acetylsalicylic acid, and diacetylmorphine."

"English, John, not 'doctor speak'."

"Aspirin and heroin." John clarified. "Within two weeks one chemist produced a drug that is still one of the most widely used safe pain relievers and a horrendous compound that has taken millions of lives."

"Such is the risk of research." Sherlock shrugged. "If he hadn't discovered heroin someone else would have."

"When it was first discovered it was sold over the counter to calm colicky babies."

"So whoever wrote this cheque has an education, or at the very least a sense of humour." Sherlock mused. "That...doesn't help."

Sherlock snatched the cheque back from John and read it again. Growling in defeat Sherlock tossed the valuable piece of paper into the air. Jumping to his feet Sherlock stalked over to over flowing table and ruffled through the papers until he found the photos and scant information on the first John Doe. Dragging his sleeve across his forehead Sherlock looked at the resulting sweat stain in disgust.

"Why in the name of the Queen's green countryside am I still sweating?" Sherlock snarled.

"Because you're still working through the heroin withdrawal."

"Nonsense. I got past that ages ago."

"Ages ago?" John repeated with a skeptical tone.

"Fine, hours ago. The pain is gone, but this damn sweating won't stop."

"Give it more time."

"I don't have time for that." Sherlock snapped.

"Maybe we should just go for a walk or something."

"A walk? Walk where?"

"No where."

"Why would anyone walk no where?"

"Never mind."

Sherlock went through the information on John Doe again as if something new would jump out at him. When it didn't Sherlock walked into the kitchen where John had retreated to try and find something for lunch. Sherlock reached out and turned John around to face him. John furrowed his brow as Sherlock stared at him with his hands on his shoulders.

"Sher..."

"Where is it, John? I need it. You can watch my every move like a mother hen."

"Fine." John sighed in defeat as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bag a of heroin.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed brightly as he snatched the powder away. "Now be a good man and fetch me a spoon."

"Sherlock..."

"I'm kidding, John." Sherlock smiled.

"Not funny."

"Yes it was." Sherlock said smugly.

John shook his head sadly and continued his quest for lunch. Sherlock dove into the chemistry equipment that he kept on the dinning table and began a set of careful experiments. John wasn't sure how a man who didn't know the chemical name for aspirin could possibly know how to usefully test heroin, but then again John wasn't sure how Sherlock had lived thirty plus years on the planet without learning how the solar system worked.

While Sherlock was working John took the sandwich he'd made and wandered over to the couch. Sherlock was so involved in what he was doing that there would be peace for a few hours. John brought out his lap top, but he didn't feel that writing a blog on their exploits into illegal drugs was a good topic, particularly since the case wasn't exactly solved yet. Once again John updated his readers with a simple 'Still on holiday' entry.

With nothing to do John decided to start writing out their current case in a plain word document. At best they would solve the case and it would be safe to post it, at worst it would keep his writing skills sharp for when they came to a case that wouldn't put a sniper on the roof next door if posted. A few hours later Sherlock came over and sat down on the couch next to him.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing." John answered simply.

"'Chasing the Dragon'?" Sherlock read the title. "Is that for the blog? That's a brilliant idea, could draw our Dragon out of hiding."

"I'm not posting it until I know it's not going to get us shot."

"Well, never mind, I have a new lead."

"Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "The heroin wasn't pure, it was cut."

"I'm sure most of the heroin that hits the streets is cut, it increases profits."

"It's what it was cut with that's fascinating: caffeine and benzocaine."

"Neither of those are illegal and they are both white powders, so that makes sense."

"True. But the one, the benzocaine, is much better at it. It is harder to detect benzocaine than caffeine. Caffeine lowers the boiling point dramatically, any junky on the street can tell you when his stash is cut with it. Some even prefer it, make it easier to smoke and gives and extra kick. The benzocaine tough that's much more difficult to detect."

"So?"

"So it is two different classes of cutting, one low grade one high. I believe it was cut twice, in fact there is actually very little heroin in our heroin. Which leads me to believe that the dose I was given was meant to bring me much closer to death than it did."

"What do you mean?"

"It was meant to be a stronger dose of heroin. I think the people who cut it the second time didn't know it had been cut the first time."

"Well you know if you can't trust drug suppliers...who can you trust?"

"Even more interesting is the fact that it wasn't just any benzocaine, but from the tests I'd say it was 99% or better pure benzocaine powder." Sherlock stated proudly. "Do you know what that means?"

"Not really." John admitted.

"Pharmacy grade. Good stuff, not produced in or for some third world country. It also means the next person we need to track down is Mrs. Fisher."

"I'm sorry...who?" John asked confused. "I don't follow."

"Wife of Shawn Fisher, who was a fairly successful salesman for Valcom Pharmaceuticals until he suddenly disappeared. They wholesale many chemicals, but their greatest pride is in their 99.6% pure benzocaine powder."

"You think Shane Fisher is first John Doe?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"Don't call me 'dear'."


	21. Chapter 21

NOTE from Phoenix: I hope you have all enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing this! Hugs to all who commented, it keeps me writing.

* * *

Sherlock: Chasing the Dragon

Chapter Twenty-one, The Widow

"Sherlock, should we really be doing this?" John asked as they stood on the front step of the middle class house of Mr and Mrs. Fisher.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I think we should tell Lestrade about Shane Fisher and let him break the news."

"I don't understand."

"Don't be a twit." John snapped. "We are about to tell some poor woman that her husband isn't missing he's dead, more than that he was invovled in drug dealing."

"It's been almost two months since his disappearance, she must know by now that he's not coming back."

"People don't give up hope on their loved ones that easily, Sherlock."

"Either way, I have no intention of telling her that Fisher is dead." Sherlock shrugged as he knocked on the door. "I just want to see his house."

"So how are we going to introduce ourselves?"

"You ask the strangest questions."

John took a breath to protest but was interrupted as a well dressed woman in her upper thirties answered the door. Her deep red hair was tucked behind her ears and fell down her back in tight curls. Sherlock smiled brightly as the woman greeted them warily.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fisher. My name is Sherlock Holmes, this John Watson."

"Uh...Amanda." The woman automatically introduced herself. "Are you from the Yard?"

"In a manner of speaking." Sherlock nodded. "May we come in?"

Sherlock had posed the question as a polite request but he didn't wait for a true answer. Used to allowing guests inside Amanda had automatically stepped to the side slightly at the request. Sherlock had pounced on the opening and stepped inside. John could see the anxiety in the woman's face and instantly felt sorry for her. John was still standing outside. Amanda smiled shyly and blushed when John returned the smile.

"Please, come in." Amanda mummered. "Mr. Watson was it?"

"Doctor actually, but John will do."

"John." Amanda said warmly as she blushed again. "Come in."

"Thank you."

John stepped into the small home and looked around at the neatly arranged clutter. The house was home to a vast collection of glass and ceramic trinkets. There were several cabinets full of the decorative items, they also lined the mantle and shelves. John was startled out of his observations as a tabby cat suddenly rubbed against his leg.

"Can I get you two anything? I don't have any tea ready, but I could put a kettle on."

Sherlock was standing behind Amanda, and even though she had opened the offer to both men she was looking at John. Sherlock looked at John and nodded to encourage him to accept the offer. John knew that Sherlock just wanted the poor woman to go into the kitchen so that he could more carefully inspect her living room. John suddenly felt tremendously guilty for even being in her house.

"No, thank you." John replied politely.

Sherlock glared at John in disgust for a moment.

"How can I help you? Is this about my husband? I told the inspectors everything I know."

"He worked at Valcom?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. He was in sales, chemicals and such."

"Did he come home the night he disappeared?"

"No." Amanda shook her head. "The last people to see him were his coworkers. He didn't have a car, he took the tube, but the Yard says there is no way to know if he took it that night or not."

Sherlock didn't seem particularly interested in the woman's answer. He was more interested in the trinkets on the shelves. John shifted his weight uncomfortably as the encounter became more awkward. When Sherlock's eye fell on a small framed picture he paused.

"Is that a photo of your husband with Neville St. Claire?"

"Yes." Amanda replied simply. "They were old college buddies."

"The picture looks recent."

"They kept in touch." Amanda replied. "I only met him a few times..."

Amanda stopped when she saw that Sherlock had suddenly lost all interest in the conversation. He was drawn away as if under a trance. Sherlock crossed the room towards one of the many curio cabinet that was up against the far wall. Looking increasingly uncomfortable Amanda looked to John for help.

"I'm sorry." John said automatically. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I...I think you should leave." Amanda stuttered. "Please."

"Sherlock, let's go."

Sherlock paid no attention to John. Standing in front of the display of ornaments, miniatures, and music boxes Sherlock reached out to pick one up. John cringed as Amanda began to fret.

"Please don't touch those." Amanda said with her voice raised in anxiety. "They're very precious to me."

"I bet they are." Sherlock replied calmly as he turned around with his prize. "You shouldn't have kept this one."

John's breath hissed across his teeth as Sherlock revealed the small blue glass dragon in his hand. It was identical to the one that Sherlock had recieved as a death threat. Amanda paled visibly upon seeing the tiny glass artwork.

"It..it's just a glass trinket, I got it ages ago." Amanda said unconvincingly.

"We both know that isn't true. This was sent to your husband as a warning, but you never let him see it."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Please, just leave...I...I'm going to call the police."

"Don't bother, we'll do that for you."

"You have no right to come into my house and accuse me of murder!" Amanda snarled in sudden fury.

"Murder?" John replied stunned.

"I didn't say anything about murder," Sherlock replied calmly "but now that you mention it why did you tell the cartel about your husband's side business of selling bash to Asia?"

"Bash?" John asked.

"Bash is the term used for legal cutting agents when sold to drug dealers. Shane was stealing it from his work and giving it to St. Claire who used his travel to Asia for film shoots to sell the benzocaine directly to the heroine exporters. They'd get a much higher price for it in Asia because then the exporters could sell their cut product to the West as pure. Then the local distributor cut it again with caffeine without even realizing that it had been cut already."

"I...I..."

"But why did you tell them, you must have. Once St. Claire realized Shane was missing and most likely dead he tried to flee as well. But the got to him first. So, why? Why have your husband killed, what was your motivation?"

Amanda averted her hazel eyes away from Sherlock's intense stare, her cheeks blushing a brighter red than ever.

"Ah..." Sherlock smiled and stepped closer to his prey. "Shane and St. Claire were more than old college buddies, more than illegal business partners...they were lovers."

Amanda lashed out and slapped Sherlock hard across the cheek. Sherlock didn't retaliate, he remained calm as Amanda completely fell apart. Sitting down heavily on the couch the betrayed housewife broke down into bitter tears. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her emotional display and turned his attention to John.

"Why aren't you calling Lestrad?" Sherlock demanded.

"What? Oh...right."

"Don't tell me you were starting to fancy her. Your taste in women is appalling, John."

"Shut it."

Sherlock chuckled as John pulled out his cell phone and called the inspector. After explaining the situation John hung up, the inspector and his men were on his way. John looked down on the still crying woman. He still couldn't help but pity her. After a moment he turned to Sherlock.

"How did you know she told the cartel? They could have just figured it out themselves." John demanded. "And how on Earth did you happen to spot that tiny dragon from across the room among all this stuff."

"It wasn't chance, I was looking for it."

"What?"

"I suspected Mrs. Fisher as soon as she opened the door."

"Why?"

"She was headed for divorce before her husband disapperared, she hadn't worn her wedding ring in months, the indentation and tan line is completly gone. Shane was in the process of leaving her for St. Claire. Also her earrings and necklace are real diamonds, her fingernails have a top of the line manicure job, her blouse is silk, her shoes are new Italian, she looks about five years younger than her given age achieved by expensive make-up, she also has the scent of having been spending a lot of time at spa that offers mineral mud baths."

"What does any of that have to do with anything?"

"When you pair it up with the large coffee table book on abstract art you don't get the picture of a wife who's anxious about her missing spouse. It's the portrait of a scorned woman who has recently started to spend a heafty amount of money on herself. Specifically she spent money on making herself look and feel attractive, not a surprise after she had found out that her husband was sleeping with a man."

John looked over at the coffee table and spotted the book Sherlock was talking about. Another glance around and he realized that for a house so cluttered with knickknacks the walls were oddly bare. Shane Fisher had probably also been paid in art. Sherlock watched John catch up with a smug smile twitching the corner of his lips. John hated that look.

"So now what?" John asked.

"What do you mean? Now we find ourselves a new case."

"What?"

"We caught our murderer. Mrs. Fisher fed her husband and St. Claire to the Dragon, that's important crime here."

"It is? Not stopping the drug lord behind all of this trouble?"

"No sense in wasting my talent on drug dealers."

"I'm surprised to hear you say that."

"I can't be bothered with impossible tasks." Sherlock shrugged.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing."

"No one catches the Dragon, John...not even us."


End file.
